Stand Your Ground
by Hel-Lokisdotter
Summary: It doesn't matter what the 42nd Hunger Games bring. Twins, politicians, Careers and criminals; anger and fear and maybe, just maybe, the spark of rebellion... it doesn't matter. The cameras will keep rolling; the Games must go on.
1. The Reaping

**A/N: This is really an experiment; it's been a long time since I wrote OC-only fic, and I'm probably a little rusty. Also, I've only read the first two books and I haven't watched the movie, so I guess this is simultaneously a plea to go gentle on me continuity-wise and a plea to avoid spoilers in reviews. I'll get to it ASAP, I promise.  
>Anyway, please concrit if there's anything non-Mockingjayfilm-related that you feel could be fixed here, and I hope you enjoy reading it as much as I'm enjoying writing it!  
><em>The Hunger Games<em> is, of course, property of Suzanne Collins, and I lay no claim to it. My beta is aim2misbhave on LJ, and I am thoroughly indebted to her.**

* * *

><p><strong>1 - The Reaping<strong>

The Reaping begins to air early in the Capitol, and as the cameras cut to the polished stage in District One, the sense of excitement in the air is palpable even through the screen. They start with One for a reason, and it isn't just numbers; it stands as a way to steadily ease the viewer into the Games, beginning with the career districts where there's less likely to be screaming and crying. Indeed, there's a sense of anticipation - even impatience - overlying the mayor's scripted speech; the folk of District One are here for the Reaping, not some history lesson. At last, the representative for District One steps up to the Reaping balls, flanked by the District's mentors.

He does not speak; he needs no introduction. The people of District One know Adrien Summerhale's face, and they know the Games, and the viewers know them too. So he simply raises a hand to the camera and to the crowd, and steps forward to dip his hand into the girls' ball, drawing out the slip of paper with an elegant flourish. When he speaks, his voice is deep and rolling despite the trilling Capitol accent.

"Wonder Viponte!"

The crowd parts for her, and she leaps up onto the stage, red-gold hair flying, favouring the crowd with a triumphant raise of her fist and a sparkling grin aimed directly at the camera. If she is afraid, if the thought of dying in the name of entertainment horrifies her, she shows no sign of it. Rather, what shows is excitement – and safe in the Capitol, the live viewers think that after all, doesn't she have a right to be excited? Isn't she being given the chance for fame and glory, the chance to prove herself? You only have to look at her confidence in front of the cameras, at her strong arms and powerful stance, at her utter unflappability, to know she's been training for this her whole life. She would probably have volunteered, even if she hadn't been chosen. True, she's a little young, but at fifteen she'll still be older than a lot of her opponents, and confidence radiates from her.

In District One, the crowd erupts into applause. In the Capitol, the viewers watch casually, and the bookmakers and gamblers lean forwards in their seats, already beginning to size her up.

Wonder is quickly joined by Indigo, a solidly built boy with his dark hair waxed up into spikes and his expression a study in neutrality. Again, the crowd goes wild. Again, the bookies at home make notes.

The morning sun turns the sky so blue that it almost hurts to look at it. The tributes stand on the stage, side by side, Wonder smiling brightly and Indigo watching the cameras watching him, as the Treaty of Treason is read.

The Forty-Second Annual Hunger Games have begun.

* * *

><p>In District Two, the same festival atmosphere prevails; when Genera Crest steps up onto the stage, her "Happy Hunger Games!" is almost drowned out by the roar from the crowd, which nonetheless falls into expectant silence as she steps up to draw the names – a silence so absolute that the click of her high heels on the stage is audible almost to the back.<p>

"Domitia Lapworth!" she proclaims in a high, carrying trill, and as the crowd draws back to open the way for the lithe thirteen-year-old, Genera straightens up to add, "Unless anyone wishes to volunteer in her place?"

"I volunteer!" The cry is almost immediate, and it comes from the opposite side of the stage. To the backing of mixed applause and catcalls – there are several other girls in the audience who wish they had possessed the courage and the speed to get their names in first – the first volunteer of this year's Hunger Games mounts the stage, her chestnut hair elaborately fastened and framing her triangular face. She is beautiful, in a pinched kind of way, and she moves with a warrior's grace. Across Panem, gamblers will take note of her as a contender. She clearly has it in her to move quickly and gracefully, and volunteers tend to have an edge.

"Ladies and gentlemen," Genera announces theatrically, as she welcomes the girl onto stage, "unless there are any objections..." And she pauses, as ritual demands, in case anyone wishes to object, in case Domitia wishes to stand up for her right to stand as tribute. But there is only silence; the volunteers may have signed up for glory, but they have also signed up for possible – _probable_ – death. District Two respects that, and rarely put up a second volunteer for the same tribute.

Genera smiles flawlessly, the gems set in her cheeks winking brightly in the sun. "Then we have our first tribute! What's your name, Tribute of District Two?"

The girl brushes imaginary dust from the shoulder of her Reaping dress, and turns directly to the cameras, allowing them to zoom in on her carefully made-up face as she offers a smile and a wave. "Althea Wellwood. Future victor." And she grins and raises her arms to the crowd in an unscripted, triumphant gesture, and again the crowd erupts into a wave of noise as she steps back.

Genera applauds, too, politely, then signals with one hand, almost jokingly, for the crowd to quiet down. "And now, our second tribute for the forty-second Games..." Her gloved hand digs in the glass ball containing the boys' names, and, after a long, tense moment – there aren't many Representatives who can play a crowd like Genera Crest – she pulls out a single slip of paper, reading it out loud and clear into the heavy hush. "Titus Hood!"

There are no volunteers this time. Most of District Two knows Titus, and there would be a scandal of sorts if he were never to compete; eighteen now, and the strongest among them with a sword, he's been holding off volunteering every Reaping since he was twelve. But there is a cheer as he steps up onto stage alongside Genera, flexes both his arms to the crowd, then steps back to join Althea.

Slowly, as the mayor steps up for the Treaty, the applause ripples away again. And, in rooms all across the Capitol, the bookies huddle together, heads almost touching, and begin to discuss preliminary odds. Everyone knows the Career Districts are where the real competition lies.

* * *

><p>The transition can be jarring, from the rich, excited crowds of District Two to the more sombre, plainly-dressed citizens of District Three. Here, they listen to the history lesson with resignation and acceptance, not impatience. Here, there is no applause when the Representative, Polly, is introduced. But as in all the Districts, it somehow manages to be quieter than quiet as she steps up to draw the names. The first name, the girl, is Deb Grey, a skinny, nervous-looking teenager who stumbles a little on her way up to the stage. Predictably, nobody takes Polly's offer for volunteers, and Deb takes her place on the stage with a kind of stunned disbelief as the cameras focus on her. One of her hands comes up, self-consciously, to twist her shoulder-length brown hair. In the Capitol, the bookies write off the girl from District Three.<p>

The boy seems, if anything, even less threatening. He climbs up onto stage, and, unlike Deb – who is still looking pinned in place by the surrounding cameras – he barely even seems to notice the cameras. He is barely twelve, his shock of blonde hair defies the neatness his parents have clearly tried for, and there are tears tracking slowly down his cheeks. There is no applause for Rendwick Herriot, only a shocked, deathly silence broken by his sobs, and the sobs of his parents to one side. Everyone knows that his journey to the Capitol will be one-way.

Even Polly finds it hard to break cheerily into that funereal silence, but it is her job as Representative to keep up the festive mood, and so she claps for him, the brittle, sharp applause of someone whose only purpose in applauding is getting everyone else to join in. And, reluctantly, they do, but the applause of District Three is no roar and cheer to match the first two Districts. Sharp, stunned, and cut to the quick, the citizens of the electronics district have to come face to face with the fact that their chances are close to zero in this year's Games.

* * *

><p>After that depressing interlude, with the bewildered, small-looking children staring out at the viewers of Panem, it is a relief for many in the Capitol to get back to the Career Districts, where you can at least guarantee that there'll be some kind of contender in the running. The stage in District Four is set up on the beach, so that the cameras can get the best angle of the glittering waters and clear sea air which make the district so beautiful – although that does mean that the whole stage and camera set has to be sheltered from spray, sand, and seagulls. The sun is high, and the early afternoon is splendid and golden.<p>

In a welcome contrast to Deb and Rendwick, not one but both of the District Four tributes are volunteers. The first, Harriet Keeler, has to be nudged by her friends, and there is so long a pause that the original tribute is halfway onto stage before Harriet finds her voice. When she does, though, it cuts loud and clear over the murmur of the crowd and the cries of the gulls overhead, as if she's making up for lost time; "I volunteer!" She's well known, and in the Capitol, the bookies give a murmur of interest; her grandfather, Jacob Keeler, was the victor of the first ever Hunger Games. She has a heavy weight on her shoulders, one which she carries with pride as she steps up to the stage, tall and proud and with her fierce blue eyes glittering as bright as the sea behind her, and she is greeted with a roar to match anything from the first two districts.

Julian Brelsford, the second tribute, thus has a hard act to follow onto stage, but follow her he does, and in fact is so eager to that he shouts it so quickly it drowns out most of the name on the paper. The cameras follow him onstage, catching every movement, in such detail that every sunbleached hair on his head is visible on the vast screens of the Capitol. No doubt about it, the Career Districts are sending out their best this year.

Just like they do every year.

* * *

><p>Just like they do every year, the Capitol audience lose a little interest as the focus shifts away from the career districts. Here is where the fashion begins to become unbearable for the discerning taste of Capitol aficionados; here is where the odds begin to lengthen for the gamblers and the bookies; here is where the sense of excitement begins to feel a little forced. Not to mention, here is where the same history lesson and Treaty of Treason begin to get tired of repetition, over and over again. There is a sense that the best is over, and a number of Capitol citizens leave their televisions, resolving to watch the evening recaps instead. But the Games continue Reaping, and the cameras continue rolling, just as they always do and always will.<p>

From District Five, Flow Morrison steps up as her name is called, a broad-shouldered young girl with short, dirty blonde hair. She gives the camera a very convincing snarl, then laughs despite the fear in her eyes. After her comes Phox Allerdyce, very tall and thin, with long legs and a cold stare, and the bookies have to admit that District Five's tributes do seem to have the odds somewhat in their favour, even if they look a bit weak next to Titus, Harriet, or Julian. Their lean, olive-skinned Representative seems to think so, too, and the applause he leads the crowd in seems completely genuine. They aren't Career, but they aren't District Three, either.

District Six has a slightly poorer show. Valaria Morgan is a skinny, fair girl, and at thirteen, she's young enough that she can't be expected to be a serious competitor. She does know enough, though, to keep her face steady, not showing any weakness in front of the cameras, and that gains her a measure of support in the Capitol, where plenty of people pride themselves on valuing the strong-willed competitors. But it seems unlikely she'll get many sponsors. Most people write her off at once; if she doesn't die in the first day, it'll be a miracle.

But she's joined a moment later by Mac Lemann, who seems like a much more viable option. He isn't tall, but his shirt sleeves bulge with muscle, and his smile is slow but winning. He doesn't radiate confidence like the Career tributes, but he draws himself up to his full height, such as it is, and waves to the crowd without a flinch. There's something very _solid_ about him. It's hard to imagine him going down without a fight, or making some kind of rash mistake. The bookies in the Capitol take their notes; the gamblers move through the crowd; the sun rises towards noon, and another mayor launches into the Treaty.

District Seven brings nothing of note to anyone except to the crying women in the audience and to the brothers of the girl tribute, two small boys who clutch at the skirt of her Reaping dress as she passes to take her place, stony-faced, on the stage beside the mayor. Blye Combes, that tired-looking, black-haired tribute, is joined by Nate Dixon, who sketches something between a salute and a bow before standing back to listen to Dolores Inchcape try to pump some spirit into the crowd.

And then comes District Eight, and all the Capitol watchers who have tuned out will regret it now, because if there is ever a Reaping which makes one sit up and take notice, it is the forty-second Reaping of District Eight.

* * *

><p>It starts innocently enough, and in fairness, District Eight is one many viewers do tune out for – not because of the quality of their tributes, which is no worse than most of the non-Career Districts, but because District Eight is simply nothing to match the glittering shores of District Four, or the deep, foreign woods of District Seven, or the packed, excited crowds of the Career Districts. Eight is dull and grey, and hidden beneath a perpetual cloud of smog; Eight is not rolling countryside or vibrant beach; Eight is as urban as the Capitol, with none of the charm.<p>

Jovan Steel is well aware of that fact, and he seems almost to try and make up for the greyness of the surroundings with the brightness of his own flashy, tailored suit, which sparkles in a thousand colours by the stage lights as he steps up to draw the names. "Happy Hunger Games!" he announces, and the rainbow of gems set in his teeth sparkle as he raises a gloved hand to the cameras. "And may the odds be ever in your favour!" The crowd applauds politely and briefly, and District Eight holds its breath as one iridescent glove delves into the girls' ball, drawing out the slip of paper and unfolding it with hushed ceremony.

Jovan looks up, not smiling, drumming up the suspense as much as he can. He's new to the Games this year; it's vital he makes an impression. "And the female tribute for District Eight is... Bethan Milligan!"

Silence. Stillness. Worry crosses his face for a split second before the professional mask returns. The Peacekeepers are just starting to make their way into the enclosure when she pushes her way through, sullen and unreadable, and mounts the stage. She is tall, slender, and undeniably beautiful, but her blue eyes hold about as much warmth and human feeling as chips of quartz. Her blonde hair is pulled up in a simple ponytail, and when she walks, it shifts to reveal the ends of the whipping scars which trail under her blue dress.

But she doesn't put up a fight, or argue, or cry, and she deigns to look at the cameras and even to nod to the slightly sweating Jovan before she takes up her position, staring out over the crowd, her eyes level and her posture ramrod-straight. Jovan visibly relaxes and gives another bright smile, whipping up applause for her as best he can. And, in honesty, it isn't that difficult. There's no warmth for her in the eyes of the audience, but she's showing her colours for the camera already, and there are many worse ways to go than aloof and strong.

Jovan smiles again, putting the same warmth into it that all the Representatives seem able to summon up from nowhere, and moves forwards again, reaching into the other ball of names. Clearing his throat with a jokingly overdramatic air, he steps forwards again, and slowly opens the paper, then looks up, his eyebrows rising.

"Daniel Milligan!"

There is silence.

Heads turn towards the brown-haired boy standing in the middle of the stockade.

He takes a step towards the stage, looking shocked. Then another. Shock hangs like smoke in the air. The crowd is deathly still.

And then Bethan _screams_.

That scream shakes all of Panem, especially the Capitol, where the viewers are almost beginning to doze off. It is a loud scream, loud enough that the Mayor and the victors at the side of the stage automatically flash their hands to their ears. More than loud, though, it is _raw_, tearing out from the core of her, shivering in the still air, and it is full of pain and anger and betrayal and loss and fear, and as she screams, she is crying, and as she cries, she is lunging forwards, heedless of the Peacekeepers going for their guns, heedless of the cameras, heedless of everything but Jovan Steel in his flashy suit and flashy gloves, his flashily embellished eyebrows flying up in shock as she hurls herself at him, blindly and wildly, and her eyes are ablaze with a kind of madness and her lips are drawn back to bare her teeth...

"_Beth_!" Daniel yells, his voice cracking slightly. Suddenly, he's on the stage with her, and the flicker of his eyes says he _is_ aware of the cameras and the crowd and, most of all, aware of the Peacekeepers. But she doesn't seem to hear him, because she's still screaming as he grabs her arms and hauls her bodily away from Jovan Steel before she can get herself shot down in front of fifty thousand people. And she's still screaming, and now the cameras are starting to cut out, because the shock has given way to the fear that one girl screaming might strike at the heart of the Capitol.

And then she's sobbing, in spite of everything, and slowly, the cameras come back on, because they can see an angle here. And then she straightens up, and something drops back in place over her face, and she looks almost calmly out at the audience as Daniel lets go of her arms.

"None of you?" Her voice is half plea, half accusation. She doesn't move to wipe away her tears, but she hasn't shed any more, either. "He's my _brother_. He's my _twin_. I can't..." There's a shake in her voice for an instant, soon brought back under control. "Somebody. Anybody. Please, not both of us."

Jovan half-turns to her, visibly shaken, and reaches out a hand as one might to placate an animal which might, at any moment, decide to bite. "I'm sorry," he says, and sounds as if he means it, though with the Representatives it's always hard to tell.

"They're the ones who should be sorry." She seems to register not only the cameras, but the guns, and she raises her chin and wears the tears as a badge of honour, clearly trying to rescue the situation. "All of you. All of you in District Eight. There are thousands of you, and none of you have the guts. It isn't the Capitol who's to blame for this, it's you."

"Beth..." Dan touches her arm, lightly. She closes her eyes for a moment, and then she steps back, looking Jovan in the eye. Cameras and guns are squarely trained on her, and the whole of Panem knows that she's standing on a knife edge.

Something twitches in her jaw. Daniel's hand is still laid lightly on her sleeve. She swallows, reaching up to touch his hand, and Daniel squeezes hers lightly in return. The message is clear; he doesn't condone her actions, but he stands with her. They stand together on the edge of the precipice, and at last she summons up the nerve to pull them back as much as she can.

"I'm sorry," she says, to Jovan, and it's clear the words are an effort. "I shouldn't have reacted like that. It's just..." And now, she allows herself to reach up and dash her tears away. "Thank you, Mr Steel. I know you're doing all you can."

And the show goes on. The mayor, sweating and casting terrified looks at the Peacekeepers, stumbles through the Treaty. The Milligans do not shake hands, but instead stand at the back of the stage, shoulder to shoulder. And, at last, the cameras cut away from District Eight.

* * *

><p>There is more of the Reaping still to show, of course, and it is duly shown. In District Nine, a skinny, acne-marked teenager and a slightly younger girl with olive skin and dark springs of hair. In District Ten, a broad, homely girl with dark eyes, and an orphan boy, Arthur, who has to stop his mangy grey cat from following him onstage. In District Eleven, the tall, dark girl who mounts the stage is joined by another twelve-year-old – Sart Jones, small and steady, with coffee-coloured skin and one hand withered and caught against his chest. He stares out at the cameras with old eyes and unsettling equanimity, and perhaps that might have the power to shock, were the audience not still turning District Eight over in their minds. Besides the slender, shy, and aptly named Willow, District Twelve brings up what must surely be one of their sounder tributes, an enormous, muscular redhead who looks completely out of place in the Seam, but who has the viewers, the mayor, and even the Representative eating out of the palm of his hand five seconds after walking on stage.<p>

Yet even he goes unnoticed. There is only one thing that will be remembered in the Capitol from this Reaping, and when the recap comes on, one thing which dominates. For days, the whispers will go around the Capitol, and around the Districts, and through Panem like a wildfire.

_Did you see it? Were you watching? Did you hear?_

And in the Capitol, the President frowned deeply, but settled back to watch it run its cause. She had capitulated, and she was a tribute. She was not a threat. Yet.

But still it lingered in the public consciousness, just a whisper of gossip. _Is it true? Isn't it exciting? Twins, in the Hunger Games! And that girl. That scream. You know, I'd put my money on her. Yes, even over Titus. Maybe not Titus. She'll be a contender, though..._

In the Districts, fear rules. In the Capitol, excitement. And everywhere, everywhere, there is the discussion of the girl from District Eight, and Jovan Steel teetering on the edge of the stage with his eyes wide and frightened, and most of all the scream.

The scream that shook Panem.


	2. The Capitol

**2 - The Capitol**

There is a full day's break before the parade, while the tributes travel and the media use it to its full advantage. Turn on the screens at any given time, and you'll be met with the faces of the tributes, videos and photographs snapped in the doorways of trains, soundbites and fervent discussions on the Reapings this year. Of course, one clip shows up more than any other; the Milligan twins, standing in the doorway at the District Eight train station. Bethan's hair has been pulled back tighter than before, and her face is stony and cold, her back ramrod-straight; Daniel smiles out at the cameras, if a little shakily. They hold hands tightly, fingers laced together, and commentators all over Panem read the silent message of the photograph; _we are not broken_.

But there is a full day to fill, and the Capitol audience is easily bored. Now they begin to move away from District Eight and the scream; now the view widens again to include all the tributes. Much time is spent on the dry-eyed Career tributes, especially Harriet Keeler – guaranteed to be a draw to anyone old enough to remember the first Games; guaranteed, too, to have been practicing since birth for this role. The programming flicks over Five, Six, and Seven, lingers again on Eight, and goes on moving outwards, to the further and poorer Districts, where the duelling emotions on the children's' faces are more complex; fear, loss, and shock, tinged with an odd excitement at the idea of the Capitol, and all hidden under the wary consciousness of the cameras on them.

There is some discussion of the girl from District Eleven, whose slight curves suggest she's better-fed than most, and who smiles for the cameras as if she's been on TV all her life. Her fellow tribute brings less discussion, but more pity; the boy stares out from the captured film with that same quiet calm he had on stage, his withered arm curled up against his chest, and everybody knows it will be a miracle if he survives the bloodbath.

District Twelve is returned to a few times, and the commentators skim over Willow Selkirk in favour of the boy tribute, debating his chances fiercely. He is certainly a step above the usual District Twelve tributes – and a head above them, too, with his height. He is bony and hungry-looking, but that seems only to throw his muscular build into sharper relief, and although there's a definite beard starting on his square jaw, the smile he gives for the cameras is boyish and charming. His good looks will be a gift to him – the good-looking ones always get more sponsors.

At the station, he smiles and waves and cracks jokes, even in the brief couple of minutes the press is given with them. The girl tribute almost disappears into the background, even though she's actually standing in front of him. Eoin Costigan is the man of the hour in District Twelve, and even the volunteer tributes have a hard time matching his cocksure, light-hearted confidence.

It's so engaging, in fact, that most of the Capitol misses the signs, and only a few viewers turn to one another and point it out; between the stage and the station, he's been crying his eyes out.

Eoin Costigan. The Milligans. Harriet Keeler, Titus Hood, even little Sart Jones and Arthur Ackerman whose loyal cat tried to follow him to the station. All of them are discussed, over and over again, on and off the screens, but there's so little to go on at this point that it's just idle chatter, filling time until the opening ceremony.

And that comes soon enough. After all, time does fly when you're having fun.

* * *

><p>The city centre heaves with life. Anyone who's anyone is there; the rest of Panem satisfies themselves with huddling around the screens, or, in the case of the more enterprising Capitol children, dives through the legs of the colourful, lively, wildly excited crowd, trying to get closer to the route of the parade. The crowds stretch out for miles, like a restless sea, standing on tiptoe or elbowing their way forwards.<p>

At last, the excited buzz to the air begins to fade, and, at last, the heavy doors of the Remake Center begin to open. The crowd cranes forwards, holding their breath as one.

The evening light catches the District One tributes as they ride out of the shadows, standing tall and proud in their golden chariots. Indigo looks stunning, of course, but it is Wonder who makes the crowd gasp; her reddish hair is twisted into intricate braids, curling around one another, each fastened with a single jewelled pin, echoing the complex gold filigree of her toga; her eyebrows are woven through with jewels, her skin gently dusted with gold. Indigo, beside her, looks like a hero, but she looks like a statue, a being of pure gold. A living luxury. The sun glints off jewels and gold, Indigo and Wonder raise their hands in greeting, and the crowd lets out a deafening roar which is only just beginning to fade away as the grey horses draw out the District Two chariots.

Masonry is a difficult speciality to lend glamour to, but the stylists have done well. Above the fresh wave of cheering from the crowd, the cameras pan over Titus and Althea, taking in the polished stones wired together to form their outfits, the cunningly faked stone gauntlets and helmets, the seam of hematite that runs criss-cross along Althea's left side and Titus' right, a slick black mirror to the crowd. It's certainly a fine effort, but they have a hard act to follow, and it's undoubted that, somewhere back in the Remake Center, the District Two stylists are letting out a sigh.

Next come Rendwick and Deb, and across the Capitol – or at least among those who can hear themselves think above the crowd – it's remarked with a degree of pity that, really, those flimsy electrical-wire weavings are a pretty poor effort, _completely_ out of touch with today's fashions, of course, but they would look so much better if only the tributes weren't so obviously embarrassed by them. Oh, they're trying and for the provincial, factory kids it might be a little hard to face the whole of Panem with their whole bodies visible through the criss-crossing wires, but that doesn't really hold up as an excuse when right behind them come the District Four tributes in little more than fishing nets, and _they_ aren't blushing or staring at their feet. No, they stand straight and glorious, and they make a stunning pair, their blonde hair swept into waves and braided through, in places, with silver and blue threads, two pairs of bright blue eyes which match the metallic blue sweeps of paint across their faces. They look as fierce and as implacable as the ocean, and the crowd roars like a storm over water, all the louder when Harriet raises her fist with a triumphant grin on her silver-painted lips, and Julian follows suit. At least it takes one's mind off the poor, pathetic District Three tributes in their silly costumes. They must be so _embarrassed_.

District Five has a much better showing, too. Lightning bolts glitter down the sides of the tributes' dark tunics, drawing the eye – and the camera – up to their faces, dashed with delicate forks of golden lightening. They're wearing some kind of contact lenses, which flash like electricity as the cameras focus in on them. The girl, Flow, smiles at the crowd, showing her teeth, and gestures to them, trying to pump up the applause. It works, too; everyone loves a tribute with a sense of fun. It's so dreary, sometimes, when the tributes forget that they've got a duty to entertain.

Behind them, Valeria and Mac, the District Six tributes, look almost boring in their modified driver's uniforms. Their make-up is minimal, and the most that can be said for their outfits is that they're flattering. Across the Capitol, the fashionable ladies click their tongues and shake their heads in mock-despair; there's simply no _spectacle_ to it, no spark of genius. The stylists must have been reaching. It's disappointing, really. And it doesn't help their case that people are starting to murmur again, wondering what the twins will be wearing, craning to try and see into the Remake Center as the doors slide open again to let the District Seven tributes out.

It doesn't help, either, that District Seven's outfits are the one of most ridiculously predictable in the Games. Admittedly, their prep team has gone all out to try and make them seem that bit more stylised and unique, with spirals of green and brown up their necks and cheeks, and a bright red cardinal perched in Blye's coiled black hair, and jewelled fruits nestling in the folds, just barely catching the eye. There are vines twining up Nate's strong arms, and ivy tendrils coiling around Blye's exposed leg, and every bit of the stylists' expertise and talent has gone into making it seem more than it is. But in its own way, the Capitol – the watching, judging Capitol – is very pragmatic, and all the smoke and mirrors in the world won't change the fact that Nate and Blye are trees. Again.

So it's with great anticipation that the crowd greets the eighth chariot, and they are not disappointed. The Milligan twins wear neither identical costumes nor radically different ones; they complement one another without matching, and if only because of the raised expectations they bring with them, their costumes are stunning. The stylists have chosen to display all the textiles of District Eight at once and all their iterations, so that Daniel is dressed in a tailored suit, crimson and black and purple and gold, of all the richest fabrics – velvets, silks, hand-woven and hand-stitched designs – while Bethan's gown is stitched together out of every other fabric, those recognisable in every district, cottons, wools, net... a thousand different textures, and a thousand shades of blue. There are ribbons in her hair and a slim, gold-edged blue ribbon around her throat.

Just as they did on stage, and in the station, they are holding hands. Just as he did at the station, Dan smiles around him, raising his free hand to wave at the crowds, while beside him his sister stands as straight as a blade, her gaze dead ahead, her darkened lips pressed together into a steady line. She doesn't even flinch when a flower thrown from the crowd catches in her hair and lodges just above her ear, the rose shedding petals like drops of blood as the carriage drives on.

They are not yet out of sight of the Remake Center when the doors open again, and the crowd turns their heads to watch the bay horses trot out, hooves high, pulling the District Nine tributes behind them. The girl, Alice, looks stunning; her suit is all flowing lines and smooth edges, the yellow-green of young grain, and it contrasts splendidly with her olive skin, as do the golden heads of grain painstakingly detailed on her cheeks. Her lips and eyelids are the same fresh green, making her look fresh, young, like a shoot growing out of the ochre-coloured carriages. It's obvious they've tried for a complementary effect with Simon's suit of golds and yellows, trying to capture the vibrancy and shine of a field of grain, but they've been undone by his acne; his makeup is twice as heavy as hers, and the imbalance shows all too well. Hers is fresh and clean; his is a mask from which his muddy grey eyes stare out at the crowd. He looks almost as embarrassed as the tributes from Three.

There's no such embarrassment on the faces of the District Ten tributes. Terra stands solidly in her chariot, her smile broad and her eyes sparkling. If she's aware of the titters and the sidelong comments about how fitting a cow costume is for her, she shows no sign of it, and the bookies take note; here is a girl who knows how to act for the cameras. But she is nothing next to the boy, Arthur Ackerman. He is dressed, like her, in a cow outfit, with enormous horns which dwarf his already small frame. At first sight, he doesn't look like much; he is thirteen, small and thin from a lifetime of malnourishment, and particularly next to Terra's solid frame, he looks like to disappear. His rapport with the crowd, though, is unrivalled, and if he is troubled by the knowledge that they'll mostly cheer for him to die, he doesn't show it. He smiles and waves, laughing at the cameras, and the crowd cheer for him. Catching a flung rose, he begins to do magic tricks with it, holding it up to the camera, making it disappear, drawing it back out from his ear, then breaking the head off and making it appear to teleport from hand to hand, until the crowd laughs and cheers and the applause rises to a thunder, and he laughs too, somehow making the flower whole again before he tosses it back into the crowd. The camera is still focusing on his antics when the doors slide open again, and he's cut off the screens to show the District Eleven chariots' approach.

These tributes make perhaps the oddest pair. Sart is twelve, and not only young but small, with light skin by District Eleven standards and short-cropped dark hair, while Amaranth Drake, the girl, is the oldest tribute this year, and with the food on the train, her body has gone from stunningly curvy for District Eleven to just plain stunning – helped, of course, by her stylist, who's decorated her in a dark green gown designed to push up her breasts and hug her figure. Her dark cornrows of hair frame her face; from each braid hangs a different kind of fruit, rendered in jewelled beads. Although she can't quite follow up on Arthur's antics, she still seems at ease with the crowd, smiling and posing, and when she is thrown a flower (perhaps by someone expecting a repeat of Arthur's display) she blows a kiss back in the general direction it came from, then tucks the rose behind her ear. By contrast, Sart stands bolt upright, his withered arm bent into his chest and the fingers twisted into a claw, and he stares out across the crowd without fear, without excitement, with nothing but a curiously adult equanimity. He doesn't seem embarrassed by his outfit – a tunic of loosely-woven earth-coloured threads, hung with cotton bolls, and loose-fitting trousers the same colour as Amaranth's dress – but nor does he seem to take any pleasure in it, or in the attention of the crowd. Although there's none of Bethan's hostility to his pose, he's just as calm, and just as utterly unfazed by the parade. District Eleven holds the crowd's interest, and there's an almost palpable disappointment when the cameras cut to District Twelve. Nobody likes watching District Twelve. Year after year, their tributes are the worst-dressed in the parade, and in the Capitol, that counts for a lot.

This year is no exception. They are as predictable as Seven, without any of the aesthetics; lamps on their heads, black makeup, some attempt to replicate a miner's uniform without the baggy jumpsuits. Eoin and Willow are dressed – if dressed is really the word – in the bare essentials; she in a kind of skimpy one-piece, he in tight shorts and heavy boots. The stylists have made a half-hearted effort to liven the whole thing up by adding complex designs in the black makeup which covers their whole bodies, and it must be admitted that Eoin's fiery hair sets off his outfit, but still, the Capitol lets out a collective yawn. Same old, same old.

The cameras cut away again quickly, aware of the audience reaction, and the screens change to the view from the City Circle, where Wonder and Indigo are arriving. The sun is starting to set over the high buildings of the city, and it glints orange off their golden outfits, setting her jewelled hairpins on fire.

By the time the tributes from District Twelve draw up, joining the line of chariots which fills the City Circle, the crowd is quiet again. In their booths, the technicians turn up the microphones on the stage and work to dampen the noise of the crowd as President Snow steps out onto his balcony, raising his hands for silence.

"Cherished citizens of Panem," he begins, and his voice, crisp and clear and amplified, booms out across the Circle. The camera cuts from face to face as he launches into the traditional welcome; Titus Hood, listening raptly to every word; Deb Grey, her brown eyes wide and frightened; Phox Allerdyce, whose cold stare is no less cold in the warm Capitol light; Valaria Morgan, her smile faltering a little until she sees her face projected on the screen; the Milligans, of whom only Daniel seems to be listening at all; Sart Jones staring at the President, solemn and steady; Arthur Ackerman, who has dislodged a gold-sprayed curl of wire from his chariot and is making it dance through his hands; Willow Selkirk half-hidden behind the fall of her dark hair. Even time to each tribute, capturing their reactions, until at last the Welcome is over and the Anthem strikes up, and the cameras pull back to capture each chariot, parading around the Circle one last time before they vanish into the Training Center. The gates close with a clash of cymbals, and night draws over the Capitol.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I apologise if that was a slightly boring chapter. I'm not that good at describing clothes. I hope you liked it anyway, though - concrit is always welcome. Let me know what you think so far! (This chapter has now been beta'd and updated. More to come, hopefully soon)**


	3. Scores

**3 - Scores**

The Training Centre is closed, which means three days of nothing. Well, nothing from the tributes, anyway. The Hunger Games are still on everyone's lips and in everyone's minds, and there's never a moment where the television isn't airing _something_ on the subject. At first, it's analysing the fashions on show at the opening ceremonies (District Three is unanimously declared the worst, even worse than Twelve, but opinion is divided on whether any of the other Districts matched One). When that topic is exhausted, they move on to discuss the tributes themselves; how they looked, how they behaved, a brief talk about their chances. Hours are spent debating whether Arthur's magic tricks show panache or disrespect, with no conclusion drawn. The clip of the rose caught in Bethan's hair is played at least five times, frequently intercut with close-ups of her hand holding tightly onto Daniel's. And Flow Morrison, the cheerful, peppy girl from District Five – is her attitude confidence or bravado? Does she have a chance? Do any of them have a chance? And then they move on to discussing her chances, analysing the snarl she gave to the audience when she was Reaped, and segue into yet another long conversation about the Reapings. There's not much to go on yet, but all of Panem is watching, and there's only so long they can discuss the chariot outfits.

And deep into the night, they talk about the tributes, and rehash every second of footage they've taken, or close to it, looking for meaning. They cut back to Harriet Keeler, and talk about her grandfather who is also her mentor; Jacob Keeler, who won the crowds over with youthful patriotism forty-two years ago, and who won the Games with sharp wits and a sharper knife. That was back when they were still perfecting the Games, of course, when they'd allowed their tributes a weapon instead of a token. They abandoned that not long afterwards; the first Games had only lasted three days, and that was no spectacle at all. So there's something to talk about, a few more hours to kill on the history of the Games, and on Jacob Keeler. A few more, to the only other sibling pair to enter the Games – a brother and sister from District Six, not twins but the closest precedent for the Milligan situation, who competed in the 32nd Games. The girl died in the bloodbath, and the boy went mad not long afterwards and threw himself off a cliff before anyone could kill him – the experts discuss that Games, and the chances of something like it happening again. It should be interesting to see, they say, especially with how close the twins seem.

But it's three days of nothing, nonetheless. Interest in the Capitol is beginning to drop off; in the outer Districts almost nobody is watching any more. Three days of nothing new. Three days of waiting.

And then, suddenly, the three days are over, and everyone is watching again. It doesn't need a signal or an order – everyone knows when the scores are aired and, across the whole of Panem, everyone is there. They huddle around the TV in District Twelve; they stare up at the big screens in Six; they lounge on cushions and watch their widescreens in the Capitol. In the Training Centre, everyone knows the tributes are there, too, sitting with their mentors and escorts, waiting to see the first hints of their fate. When the scores air, everyone is watching.

The preamble is short; a few words, and the anthem. Then it begins.

Indigo Perthshire. Seven. Respectable, but not good, and in District One, several boys around his age are heard to mutter that they _knew_ they should have volunteered, he's not the best in the District. Usually, they mutter it within earshot of girls, or of adults they want to impress. Nobody is impressed by them – then again, nobody in District One is much impressed by Indigo, either. And the photograph changes.

Wonder Viponte. Nine, and no such mutters from the girls of the District. Nine is a good, solid score, and she smiles from the photograph onscreen as if she knows it.

Titus Hood, the dark-haired swordsman from District Two, gets an eleven. Nobody is really surprised, but there is still a slight profit for those who bet on him scoring into double figures. More disappointing is Althea Wellwood, the girl, the first to volunteer this year. Eight. Again, not bad, but somehow Panem expected more of her. Eight isn't high, for a volunteer.

Rendwick Herriot stares out from his photograph with wide, mud-coloured eyes, his shock of blonde hair taking up most of the screen. Then his score: two. It only confirms most people's suspicions that he's a dead boy walking. In District Three, the silence takes on a sombre air, as if they are in mourning for him already. It's tragic, really. But it's not a surprise.

The same can't be said for the girl, Deb Grey. The photograph which flashes up on screen shows the same girl who stood stunned at the Reaping and blushed crimson all through the opening ceremony; the same nervous brown eyes and messily-cut dark hair; the same no-hope tribute who was written off the moment her name was called.

She gets a seven.

The photograph changes while most of the audience are still blinking and wondering what on earth the shy, bony little teenager could have shown the Gamemakers to get a _seven_. She's from District Three, so it was probably something to do with machines, but... _seven_? From _her_? Deb Grey, on a par with Indigo? They turn to one another, exchanging baffled looks, and the bookies hastily adjust their odds.

And then the brief flurry of activity is over, as the next score flashes up on screen. Julian Brelsford, tanned and handsome as he smiles in the photograph, gets an eight – normally a perfectly respectable score, but somehow it seems much worse now. Only a point above District Three, and so soon after it, an eight doesn't reflect on him as well as it should. Panem greets his score with apathy.

There's more interest for Harriet's, and, curiously, it's fed by the fact that nobody knows what her score will mean. If she gets a high score, is it because the Gamemakers are favouring her, looking to drum up interest for Jacob Keeler's granddaughter? If it's low, could it be because the Gamemakers' expectations are higher for her than the others? The number is all but meaningless and somehow, perversely, that only makes people more curious to what it is. It flashes up under the photograph of the sunbeaten, tough-looking girl, and Panem cranes to see; a ten. Ten is good. Ten is strong. Ten, like any other score she might have got, piques the audience's interest to see whether she earned it.

But the litany is still going on, and the focus shifts to the next Tribute and the next District. Phox Allerdyce's stare is as focused and as cold as ever in this photograph, his dust-coloured hair combed back neatly and his high cheekbones sharp as razorblades. Five. A jolting reminder that the Career tributes have all been covered.

Flow Morrison. Four. The relatively low score is somehow at odds with the photograph, which shows a fierce-looking girl, hair shaved at the sides, thick eyebrows drawn together. Her nose and eyebrow are pierced, unusual for District Five, and she somehow does not look the type to get such a _normal_ score. It seems like her attitude in the parade, so much discussed, was just bravado after all. That, or she's smarter than she looks – smart enough to fake it.

The next tribute, Mac Lemann, seems to have been distracted at the moment his photograph was taken. His brown eyes are looking off to one side, and he has that same slow, winning smile which he displayed at the Reaping. Despite his broad shoulders and strong arms, he looks almost harmless, but his score – another seven – says otherwise. Whatever he showed the Gamemakers, he impressed them.

Thirteen-year-old Valaria Morgan, waiflike and fair, is awarded a three, and promptly vanishes again from everyone's mind. She hasn't distinguished herself much at the Reaping, or at the parade, and now her score is as unremarkable as everything else about her; if she doesn't do well at the interview, she could find herself in a lot of trouble when it comes to sponsors.

Similarly unremarkable is Nate Dixon, who looks out from the photograph with something almost like boredom. His score is twice hers, and six is more than reasonable for a tribute from Seven, but it doesn't distinguish him much, particularly when Deb set the bar so high earlier on. Nor is he particularly handsome, or distinguished by his Reaping; he, too, will have to fight to avoid obscurity.

Somehow, the same is not true of Blye Combes. It should be; her score is an uninformative four, her Reaping just as forgettable as his, her looks just as plain. But there is a quality to her photograph not there in the others; a melancholy, tired look which sticks in the mind. Her black hair shades her face, and her blue-grey eyes have an enigmatic kind of age to them. She might not be backed by many sponsors, but at least they'll remember her.

Of course, that memorable quality suffers by coming straight before the Milligans, undeniably the stars of the Games so far. Daniel first, smiling in his photograph, a square-jawed boy just edging into manhood, his overlong brown hair trailing down over his eyes. Taken away from his sister – as he rarely has been since the Reaping – he's handsome in his own right, even if he lacks her icy beauty. The resemblance between them is curiously more obvious, too, when they're not side by side; something about the mouth, and the shape of the eyes, and the high, strong cheekbones. But where Bethan is hard, he is soft, and the smile on his face looks entirely real. On his own, without any of the drama surrounding District Eight this year, a low score wouldn't be a surprise, and nobody would have much hope for him – he simply looks too _nice_. As it is, though, when the five appears under his picture, the audience is genuinely disappointed. A five can be _anything_.

If Daniel is open and ambiguous, Bethan is anything but. The photograph of her could have been taken at any point after the Reaping; nothing about her ever seems to change. The same long blonde hair, in this case plaited over one shoulder; the same bloodlessly tight-pressed lips; the same cold blue eyes which reveal nothing of what she's feeling.

Two.

There's no ambiguity there. There's only a kind of disbelief, radiating out across Panem: _who the hell does she think she's fooling_? Two? Two, from the girl who attacked her Escort with animal rage in her eyes, and who showed no fear in front of the guns of all District Eight's Peacekeepers? Two, from the girl who screamed? No. The ploy is so obvious it's laughable.

In her own District, among the people who were there on the day of the Reaping, unlimited by what the Capitol chose to show, there is another question in the air. _How_? Even if she was trying to score as low as she could, how had she _managed_ to get only a two? The Gamemakers knew what she was capable of just as much as the rest of Panem did. District Eight is firmly of the feeling that she could have got a two without doing anything at all.

But for all the talk and all the flurry of excitement, the scores aren't done yet. Just as they did after Deb's shock score, the viewers settle down again, not wanting to miss any vital information.

Simon Naysmith. Skinny and mousy-haired, with mismatched features and a terrible case of acne, he stares out at the camera with a slight frown, as if the photograph froze him mid-question. Most of the viewers, still recovering from Bethan's unbelievable two, don't have time to consider his unremarkable three for more than a couple of seconds before the photograph changes again.

Alice Calle. Four. Not unimpressive, actually, for someone as small and lightly built as she is. But the audience are still distracted, and don't pay her much notice.

Arthur Ackerman grabs their attention again. All of them remember his antics in the parade, and when a tribute is remembered, people start to care about their scores much more. His photograph helps, capturing that same irreverent, unselfconscious attitude. His grin is wide and open, and although he's missing a tooth at the front, his smile looks very white against his olive skin. He gets a four, doubtless through the same kind of skill at sleight of hand which he displayed on parade – after all, he's small enough and weak-looking enough that it's hard to believe he got a four, or anything at all, by fighting.

Terra Grant, on the other hand, almost certainly got her six through sheer strength. She's one of those District Ten cowherds who looks as though she could carry a calf under each arm without any difficulty, although she won't be winning any beauty contests any time soon. The image of her on the screens doesn't show a particularly tough girl, or one used to fighting, but everyone who's put any thought into it will grant that they wouldn't want to be punched by her.

That score only highlights the contrast between her and the first District Eleven tribute, little Sart Jones. His crippled arm isn't visible in his picture, but even so he looks small and weak, his thinness exaggerated by the brown curls of hair which stand out all around his head. The number under his picture is a flat, merciless one. Unsurprising, really; even the boy in the photograph seems to stare out in resignation, as if he already knew his score and had made his peace with it when the picture was taken. Even Rendwick looks like a contender, by comparison.

After him, Amaranth Drake, and again the contrast is sharp. Where Sart is small and slight, she is tall and, while she's not well-fed, she's not nearly as skeletal as he is, either. Even her photograph extrudes a kind of earthy sexuality, and while Sart stared out of his picture with a haunted, serious look, in hers she is smiling flirtatiously, looking at the camera from under her long lashes. She gets a five, and fives mean very little in this game.

Last comes District Twelve. Usually, they'd be expected to get the lowest scores, or close to it, but two factors prevent that expectation. First, the lowest score has already been given – hard to imagine anyone scoring lower than Sart. And, secondly, the male tribute is Eoin Costigan.

His picture flashes onto the screen, allowing the viewers to take him in properly. He's handsome, in a rugged, scarred kind of way. His nose has been broken at some point, and set back a little off-kilter, and there are thin white scars just visible at his hairline and neck. He's seventeen, a few months younger than Amaranth, but he looks older – old enough that he really doesn't look like he falls within the age boundaries of the Games. His dark red hair is brushed back, and his smile holds a strange mixture of arrogance and sheepishness. Most important, though, is what doesn't show in the headshot; at six foot six and built to match, he towers head and shoulders above the other tributes. Nor is he thin and gangly, like Phox. He's hungry-looking, of course – he _is_ from District Twelve – but his bone structure is broad and square, and there is serious muscle on his arms. He's big as an ox, and looks as strong as one, and so it isn't a surprise, really, that he gets a good score. What is more surprising is just _how_ good.

Ten.

Ten puts him on a par with Harriet Keeler. It puts him only barely beneath Titus Hood, who's the favourite for most bookies. It's by far the highest score among the non-Career districts, and unprecedented in District Twelve.

Ten, and Eoin Costigan almost outdoes Bethan for the sheer impact of his score.

The screens change again. Willow Selkirk gets a four, which in any other year would be totally reasonable for Twelve, and then the scores are done, and the anthem strikes up.

But the buzz of excitement doesn't begin to die away, and it will only swell as the waiting intensifies and the interviews draw nearer. Deb Grey, Bethan's two, some poor child with a one, and a double-figure score from Twelve... Panem seethes with excitement, crying out for more.

It's clear that the Forty-Second Annual Hunger Games will be one to remember.

* * *

><p><strong>AN: I'm not sure whether I'm going to continue this fic. I hope I will, but it's been a while since I wrote anything new for it (this chapter was only waiting for me to finish editing it) so it might be hard to get back into. If you have strong feelings about whether or not I should continue (you know, to the interesting non-introductory bit), let me know - either way, thanks for reading, and I hope you enjoyed the chapter! **

**Thanks to aim2misbehave on LJ for the beta.**


	4. Interviews I

**A/N:** Okay, so it looks like I am going to continue, at least for now. I found myself thinking about how the interviews would go, so I figured I might as well take the plunge and write them.  
>This chapter's divided in half to prevent it being <em>too<em> ridiculously long - the first six Districts now, the other six Districts... um, whenever I get to writing them. It's also unbeta'd as yet, so it may be subject to change later.

* * *

><p><strong>4 - Interviews (First Phase)<strong>

The tributes are gathered in their broad arc on the stage, outside the brightest lights but still clearly in view. The stylists and Gamemakers have taken their seats. The soft susurrus of excitement is rising among those Capitol citizens lucky enough to be present, and it surges into a roar of appreciation as Caesar Flickerman takes the stage. A fairly young man, he's already an institution of the Games, and he thrives on the atmosphere of the stage; his movements easy and his smile glitteringly bright, he strokes back his vibrant purple hair in a rehearsed gesture as he bounces across the stage and sits down.

"Hello, hello, Panem!" he cries, and waves away the applause, smiling for the cameras. "May the odds be _ever_ in your favour!" There's an easy charisma to him, and he sweeps the audience along with him as he jokes his way through the introduction. After a couple of minutes, during which he has the audience in stitches, he signals for quiet again, his smile giving way to a more serious look as he leans forwards, as if to impart some great secret. "But really, folks, the Hunger Games would be nothing if it weren't for our brave young tributes, and I know – I know, I'm old and boring. You must wish I'd shut up and let you meet Panem's finest for yourselves... well, here they are! So give a warm, warm welcome to our first tribute – she really is a wonder... _Wonder Viponte!_" He roars her name, leading the crowd in rapturous applause as the cameras track Wonder across the stage. She moves with ease, despite the height of her gold stilettos. Her stylists have apparently chosen to echo her success in the parade; her clingy silver gown is cinched at the waist with a thick, heavy belt of golden armour, and similar armour wraps around her arms and throat, making her dazzlingly bright in the lights of the stage. Her make-up is similarly rich, with sweeps of gold and crimson on her eyes, her lips reddened.

She shakes Caesar's hand with every appearance of excitement, and brushes back a strand of her long red-gold hair as she sits.

"So, Wonder," he begins, wasting no time, "you were our first tribute this year. What did you think when your name was called? How did it feel?"

"Well, it saved me volunteering!" she quips, and the audience laugh along with Caesar. "No, really, though, I was... I was honoured. So honoured. I mean, I was chosen to lead my District to victory, and that's amazing! Besides, it's so exciting!" Her enthusiasm doesn't seem feigned, although it probably is. She's playing it up, the optimistic, bright tribute whose confidence should stand out – or so her mentor will be hoping.

"You sound very sure of yourself," Caesar remarks, then adds to the cameras, with a wink, "Of course, with her score, she's got a right to. Nine! Not bad, eh, Wonder?"

"Well," she confides, with a sidelong smile and a dismissive little wave of her hand, "I wasn't at my best. My nine – well, let's just say I'm getting over a bit of a cold and I hadn't had much sleep that day, shall we? Just you wait, and when you interview me after the Games, you can tell me what you think I earned there, okay?"

Caesar turns, raising his eyebrows to the crowd, and smiles at them, then back at Wonder. "I'll look forwards to it. I'll be sure to watch you extra-close so I can give you the right score – although I'd hate to muscle into the Gamemakers' territory, of course!" The screens flick briefly to the Gamemakers up in their balcony, who laugh good-naturedly at his comment, and then the cameras return to Caesar and Wonder. "So, you made a big impact on us all in the parade, with that _stunning_ outfit, and you're looking just as beautiful now. Tell me, do you have anyone back home? A girl like you, I bet you have all the boys trailing after you."

"Trailing's the right word. None of them ever seem to catch up to me!" Wonder laughs, tucking her hair back behind her ears. "They _wish_ I had someone back home. But I'm waiting for someone who's a match for me – so I guess I might be waiting a while yet!"

"You don't think any of these handsome gents might be a match for you, then?" Caesar's tone is joking as he gestures to the other tributes. "Or any of the girls, even – sure none of them can take you down?"

Wonder scoffs, tossing her hair in a calculated motion which makes it catch the light, glimmering like real gold. "They can try, Caesar. But at the end of the day, I've seen them in action, and I know I'll be the one left standing at the end. I'm quicker than most of them, and they're all pretty shabby when it comes to fighting – ask anyone, I can fight with any weapon, so I'm starting off better than them. I might not be the strongest person here, but I'm pretty strong, and I'm smart, too, smarter than any of them. It's no contest."

"Let's hope you're right," Caesar says jovially, as the buzzer sounds. "We'll all be watching, and I'm sure you'll take our breath away in the arena, just like you did in the parade. Wonder Viponte, everybody – our tribute from District One!"

With a wave to the applauding crowd, Wonder returns to her seat, her grin unwavering as the other District One tribute takes the stage. Indigo is dressed far more simply than his female counterpart, in a black suit and black boots, edged subtly with gold. His dark hair is drawn up into spikes tipped with gold. He looks solid, heavy, dangerous, and – in stark contrast to Wonder – makes his answers brief and taciturn, resisting Caesar's efforts to draw him out. Was he excited to be the first volunteer of this year's Games? Yes. Is he frightened? No. How did he feel about leaving his District behind? He meets that question with a shrug. How does he feel about his score? Disappointed. It's not until Caesar asks how he feels about his chances in the Games that Indigo really comes to life.

"I'm going to win," he says, with absolute certainty. "I don't care about what my score was, everyone knows the scores don't mean anything. I could snap half the kids here with my bare hands. Titus might be good with a sword, but he's got to get one first. And being fast's no good if you can't kill when you get there. I'm going to win. Count on it." It's noticeable, though, that his black-lined eyes slide briefly sideways to Eoin, the enormous District Twelve tribute at the end of the row of chairs, with something like worry.

After that, he sinks back into near-silence for the remaining minute or so, answering in single words: yes, he's enjoying the Capitol, yes, his family were happy he was chosen, no, he doesn't have a girlfriend... if there's one thing to be said for his brief, stock answers, it's that Caesar gets through a lot of questions. Maybe that's the point – that, in the end, the audience will know more about Indigo than any other tribute. If so, it backfires; the audience are starting to get bored of him when the buzzer goes, and although he seems like a strong contender on strength alone, the applause as he returns to his seat is muted and lacklustre.

It rises a little, though, as Althea, the District Two girl, joins Caesar onstage, shaking his hand and then raising her arms triumphantly to the crowd in mimicry of her response at the Reaping. Her stylists have taken a risk, dressing her up almost as though she's already won the Games, with a circlet on her head to mimic the victor's crown. Compared to Wonder and Indigo, she also looks much less formal, in a loose white tunic dress and high gladiator sandals, her hair up in a kind of artful mess, with a couple of chestnut tresses tumbling down to frame her triangular face. She sits, leaning back in the chair as if nothing could be more comfortable to her, and smiles for the cameras.

"Hello, Caesar," she says, before he has the chance to greet her, and he makes a great show of being knocked off-guard by her speed into the discussion.

"That's my line!" he protests, and laughs. "Did you read my script, Althea?" Then, to the audience, "Totally unscripted, ladies and gentlemen! Don't believe anyone who tells you otherwise! Even if it's me!" Tapping the side of his nose, he laughs and looks back to Althea. "So, Althea, you're our first volunteer tonight. What was going through your head, right at the moment that you volunteered?"

"Just that I had to get my claim in first, I guess." Althea's teeth, sharp and even, flash white as she smiles. "I wasn't about to let another Reaping pass without getting my name out there. Why should some other girl get all the glory?"

"That's a good point, actually," Caesar muses. "It sounded as though there were a lot of girls who would have liked to volunteer. But you got in there, bang, just like that." He snaps his fingers. "Very quick. Very quick off the mark. I was quite impressed."

"I am quick," she says, spreading her hands. "It's what gives me an edge. Quick to volunteer, quick-thinking, quick-moving. My dad used to call me his little lightening-flash." Her smile is a little sheepish, as if she can't believe she's talking about her childhood nicknames now. It's disarming, which is probably the intention.

"And your dad, how did he feel about you volunteering?"

"Oh, he was proud. Very proud. He said he was going to go down to place bets on me right away. Of course, my mom wasn't so pleased – you know how mothers are." Althea rolls her eyes, gaining an appreciative chuckle from the audience, and puts on a falsetto. "_Oh, Althea, how could you do that, what will I do if you come home in pieces_? I told her what I'll tell you; I won't come home in pieces, because they can't cut me until they catch me, and they'll be tired out by then. Mothers, right?"

"They're a nightmare, aren't they?" Caesar agrees, and then stage-whispers to the nearest camera, "No offence, Mumsie, I still love you. So," he goes on, without missing a beat, "that's your tactic, then? Stay out of trouble?"

"That'd be telling, Caesar. You know I can't spoil it like that." She tips him a wink, laughing.

"Of course. Of course you can't. Silly me." Caesar makes an aren't-I-an-idiot face, shaking his head, and smiles. "So, an eight! Not a bad score, is it? It must be quite hard to showcase speed – is there something else you showed them, something you haven't mentioned?"

"Oh, lots." Althea laughs. "But if I told you, it would spoil the surprise. I haven't been sitting around doing nothing for three days, though – I've brushed up on a lot of skills. You'll see them in the Arena, especially if I can find something sharp."

Caesar's eyebrows go up again, in an exaggerated show of interest. "That does sound exciting," he agrees, nodding. "Now, about..." But his question is cut off by the buzzer, and he gives an over-the-top sigh. "Well, I'm afraid that's all we've got time for. You might be fast, Althea, but I guess I'm not. Best of luck in the Arena. Ladies and gentlemen, Althea Wellwood!"

The crowd roars appreciation as she returns to her seat, and Caesar takes the opportunity to sip from his water glass before Titus joins him in centre stage. Like Althea, his outfit is relatively informal, but the skintight white shirt and wine-red leggings show off his well-muscled form. The flamboyance of his short cape and heavy red and black makeup notwithstanding, he looks dangerous, as much because of the economic grace of his movements as because of his sheer size.

He moves unhurriedly to clasp Caesar's hand, and speaks just as unhurriedly when Caesar compliments him on his eleven.

"I'm happy with it, obviously," he says, his tone measured and steady. "But I didn't expect anything less. I'm good with a sword, and I guess they must have seen that."

"But you had some competition, didn't you, with two tens?" Caesar's voice is slightly hushed, his expressive features showing interest as he leans forwards in his seat. "That must have come as a bit of a shock, when you knew you had the top slot?"

"Not really." Titus remains unmoved, keeping that calm confidence about him. "I try never to get complacent, you know? You don't get anywhere by assuming you're the best. You have to go out and prove it, and that's what I intend to do this year."

"So it's really quite a relief that you were Reaped, then?" Caesar turns to the audience. "Just to remind you, ladies and gentlemen, Titus is eighteen, which means this was his last chance to come here, to the Capitol, and compete. Tell me, Titus, would you have volunteered if somebody else's name had been called?"

"Probably," Titus agrees, shrugging one broad shoulder. "Although if someone else had wanted to volunteer, I might well have let them. I don't have so much to prove, you see. I know I'm one of the best in District Two. This is just a chance to prove that I'm one of the best in Panem. But I guess you saw that nobody volunteered when I was called? I was glad about that. It's good to be here, in the Capitol, and it'll be good to be able to prove myself in a real fight."

"You're enjoying the Capitol, then? Is it very different from Two?"

Another shrug from Titus. "Parts of it. There's a lot more... variety. Of people, I mean. And architecture, too. But it's really surprisingly similar, just a bit more crowded. It's interesting, though. I'd like to see more of it when I'm done with the Games."

"You sound confident."

"Well, I am. But even if I wasn't, there's not much point planning for what I'll do if I _don't_ win, is there?" It's the first joke he's made, and there's an answering ripple of laughter across the audience. "Seriously, I don't know how it'll go. But I fully intend to be on this stage again in a couple of weeks. Just imagine what that must feel like – to stand here and know you've proved beyond any doubt that you're a winner. A Victor." There's a faint smile on his lips now. "Besides, I have friends and family to go home to. A girlfriend, too. I'd like them all to see the kind of man I am."

"A victorious kind of man, I hope," Caesar says, sounding just as sincere as he always does, and stands to shake Titus' hand again as the buzzer sounds. "Good luck, Titus Hood, Tribute of District Two!"

The resulting roar of approval fades slightly as the next tribute, Deb Grey, is called up. Just as she did at the Reaping, and on the parade chariot, she looks awkward and shy, her face scarlet. She's simply dressed, in a dark, tailored dress with a long pleated skirt, which doesn't help how out of place she looks on the stage, but no amount of dressing her up would hide how obviously shy she is. It takes her a moment to unfreeze and stumble to the front of the stage, and she's visibly sweating as she shakes Caesar's hand. After the confidence baking off the first four tributes, it's a stark contrast.

Caesar tries to draw her out, with little success. She answers his questions in a thin trail of a voice which is all but lost to the microphones, and the camera crews try desperately to subtitle her words; whatever coaching her mentor gave her, it clearly wasn't enough. She doesn't have much to say; she's scared of the Games, she was upset to be Reaped, she was relieved by her score and she hopes it goes well. It seems like her interview will run to its end without anything of interest being said, but as the seconds tick on towards the three-minute mark, Caesar accidentally hits on the key. He asks, as a last-ditch attempt to keep some kind of conversation going, what she wishes she could see while she's in the Capitol... and Deb springs into life.

She's quiet, mumbling, to start with, but she warms to her theme quickly; she wants to see the systems that keep the Capitol running, the computers and networks which run unseen through the city. She wants to see the Gamemaker's work, what kinds of systems they run, the circuitry and wiring of the Arena. She waxes lyrical about transistors, operating systems, and heat sinks, and wonders aloud what else the computers could be turned towards – manufacture, industry, agriculture, communications. She's talking animatedly about the potential of a reconfigured system to speed up the trains, Caesar now unable to get a word in edgeways, when the buzzer goes. The applause that accompanies her back to her seat is uneven and uncertain, but it's there. Caesar himself, like many in the audience, seems more than a little moved – she's so enthusiastic, so clearly talented, and she's probably going to die in the next few days.

That sentimentality is only increased by the fact that the next tribute onstage is Rendwick Herriot, small and vulnerable-looking, whose stylists have played up his youth and weakness as much as possible, clearly hoping for sympathy support. Despite being so much younger, he seems to have taken his training on board better than Deb. He perches on the edge of the seat, looking up at Caesar with big brown eyes, and while he takes a while to get into the spirit of things, Caesar manages to distract him enough from the audience and the cameras that he becomes quite talkative. He's nervous about the Games, but he thinks maybe he can get somewhere because he's small, so he can hide easily and doesn't need so much food. He talks about his home, and how amazing it was to come to the Capitol. On further prompting from Caesar, he explains that the Capitol is so amazing because of all the colours, and the food, and how friendly and nice everyone is.

He lisps slightly. It's hard to tell whether that's genuine, or something his mentor has told him to affect to play up the cute angle a little further.

Caesar asks him about his family, and Rendwick answers in increasing depth; he has a mom and a dad, who cried when he was Reaped, and a little sister who's not yet five. He misses them, hopes he'll see them again soon, worries that he won't. He talks about his pet mouse, Tuftie, who he rescued from a trap, and about how he wishes he'd been allowed to bring her with him.

He lays it on a little thick – at times, he seems more like a five-year-old himself than a twelve-year-old, which makes parts of his spiel seem rehearsed and a little suspect – but the Capitol audience is a sucker for a sob story, and several people in the crowd are dabbing at their eyes when the buzzer goes and he takes his seat. That mood lasts for all of five seconds, because Harriet Keeler is up next, and everybody is far too interested in what she has to say to continue with the sentimentality of District Three.

From the moment the cameras train on her, it's obvious what angle her stylists have gone for. Her dress is white, the sailor collar striped in Panem's colours and pinned with a broach stamped with the Capitol seal. The mark of her District is on one cheek; the Capitol's bird on the other. She echoes her grandfather's historic uniform, and his patriotic, righteous attitude; it's less a ploy to make her seem on the side of the Capitol, as it doubtless was for him, and more an attempt to link her to her famous grandfather. She moves with confidence, shaking Caesar's hand firmly and turning to wave to the audience before taking her seat.

"Harriet," Caesar begins, leaning in with a big smile as he sits back down. "It's an honour to finally meet you. You're the talk of the Capitol, you know that?"

"That's very kind of the Capitol," she replies, with a laugh, waving away the compliment. "I just hope they're going to take me on my own merits, not Grandad's. He was great in his heyday, but that was a long time ago. A long, _long_ time ago." The camera pans to her grandfather, a hollow-cheeked old man sitting with the other mentors, who seems torn between laughter and indignation. The crowd are not similarly torn; they laugh good-naturedly, and clap partly for Harriet and partly for her grandfather as the cameras turn back to the interview itself.

"Do you think you'll add to your family's winning streak?" Caesar asks now, raising one eyebrow and shushing the crowd gently. "Your grandad, your father eighteen years ago, and now you. That's an impressive lineage."

"Winning's in my blood," Harriet agrees, with a dazzling smile. "And I've got Grandad looking out for me. I mean, joking aside, I couldn't ask for a better mentor, could I? He knows all the tricks - but so do I, coming from my family. Everyone's expecting me to keep up the Keeler name, and I'd hate to disappoint."

Caesar nods gravely. "Of course, of course. So, let's talk about your score. Ten! You must be proud of that, surely."

"Well, I'd have preferred a twelve..." Harriet says, with overplayed ruefulness, and laughs along with the crowd. "I'm happy with a ten, but I wouldn't say _proud_. Still, you know, my father got an eight in _his_ Games, and he's still living in Victor's Village. So I've outdone at least one person in my family, and now I just want to get in there, give everyone a good show, and prove that I'm the best Keeler yet! No offence, Grandad." Again, the cameras shift to Jacob Keeler, who shakes his fist jokingly at her and settles back in his seat, then back to Harriet. "My biggest worry is just that it'll all be over too quickly, and I won't get the chance to give Panem the show it deserves. We all know how Grandad's Games went – I don't want mine to be over in three days. So I guess I should hold myself back a bit, to give the other tributes a chance to catch up. Should I?" There's a roar from the audience, a mix of assent and booing, and she laughs. "No, you're right. That would just be lazy."

It's obvious that her easy way with the crowds isn't the result of a few hours with her mentor. She's been training for this moment – for the whole Games – her entire life, more so even than most Career tributes, and it shows. She's slick, eloquent, confident. She tells the audience an anecdote about her grandfather, and they crack up; tells them that her boyfriend's watching back home, and there's a solid wave of _awwww_. She laughs, jokes, and smiles her way through the full three minutes, with barely a pause for breath, and when the buzzer goes and she leaves the stage, the applause goes on long after she's taken her seat and Julian Brelsford has taken her place.

He has a hard act to follow, and he knows it. He's not as attention-grabbing as Harriet, or so confidently assured of support, and for a moment, as he shakes Caesar's hand, worry shows through on his face. His District will be rooting for her, and he knows it. It must be a tricky situation for him.

After that brief lapse in confidence, though, he regains his laddish attitude, lounging onto the interviewee's chair with a smile at Caesar. He's tall and handsome and well-dressed, in a white tuxedo and blue shirt, his hair streaked through with blue and silver. He answers Caesar's questions cheerfully and enthusiastically, although without Harriet's panache: he's excited to be competing, but a bit disappointed with his score, he finds the Capitol a nice change from Four because it doesn't smell of dead fish – that gets a laugh from Caesar and the audience both – and he thinks the training was really interesting, seeing the other tributes' strengths and weaknesses. He talks about fighting with spears and tridents, and how those are the usual Four weapons, and how, while he's good with them, he has other tricks up his sleeve. When Caesar asks him why he volunteered, Julian hesitates for a moment, mulling it over, before he answers.

"I guess," he says, thoughtfully, "I guess I wanted to show that the Keelers aren't the only family Four's got to offer. It seems like every time one of them's the right age, they go off and volunteer and they usually win, and it's not fair on the rest of us. Save some glory for us, Keelers – you've already got a place in the Village!" The laugh from the audience is dutiful rather than enthusiastic, but it's there. Julian isn't laughing, though. His blue eyes are serious, and he glances at Harriet with real dislike for a moment before turning back to Caesar and plastering on a smile again. "Anyway, just because there's a Keeler in the running doesn't mean she'll win. And just think about how hot it'll make me when I go back to Four with a winner's circlet on!"

"The girls won't be able to resist you," Caesar agrees, with a broad wink, and laughs.

Julian opens his mouth, as if he's going to say something, then thinks better of it and laughs along. "Well, you know. I'm already hot stuff!"

"Indeed you are, Julian. Indeed you are. Julian Brelsford, everybody!"

The applause is more muted than for Harriet, but it follows Julian back to his seat, where he perches as far away from Harriet as he can. Some of the viewers – the bookies, the commentators, and doubtless Julian's family back home – take note of his obvious dislike of her, but they are quickly distracted as Flow Morrison appears centre stage.

It's hard to blame them. The way she's dressed is pretty distracting. While most of the female tributes are dressed formally or semi-formally, in pretty, feminine dresses, Flow's stylist team seem to have thrown caution to the winds. Her outfit is more _Capitol_ than almost any other on the stage, and, at the same time, more provincial. She wears an open vest of black, metal-studded leather over a dress made from pennants of torn, neon-coloured fabric, and electric blue fishnet tights under her heavy black combat boots. The piercings in her nose and eyebrow, already unusual for a girl from Five, have been joined by more piercings; rings in her ears and lip, a chain running from her nose to her ear, all done in bright neon colours. Her dirty blonde hair has been bleached dazzling white and streaked through with more neon bright shades of pink, red, blue, and green, all waxed up into spikes to show off the shaved sides of her head. Her eyelids and lips are electric blue, lined in neon pink. She looks bright and alien and wild, and the broad smile she gives suggests she's loving every minute of it – even if there is a hint of nervousness to the looks she gives the cameras.

She thumbs her nose at Caesar when he goes to shake her hand, making him and some of the audience laugh, then goes back to shake his hand properly before flopping back into her chair. Her irreverence is carefully calculated to be charming rather than insulting, and the audience love it.

"So, Flow," Caesar begins, when they're both settled, "I'd like to talk to you about your scores, but first... that's quite the outfit you've got there. I love it!"

The camera cuts to her stylists, sitting on the front row and looking vastly relieved by the response her unconventional outfit has recieved. Flow laughs.

"Well, you know, the whole Capitol style's pretty damn cool. All those colours and everything. They were going to put me in something a bit more boring than this, but I said no, make it big. Make it colourful. Make it _cool_. If I'm going to go and fight to the death, I wanna look good when I'm doing it!"

That response speaks to a lot of the Capitol audience, and for a moment Caesar's voice is almost drowned out by appreciative applause and laughter. Whatever his question was, she answers it with a grin, sharp white teeth flashing; "Nah. Nah, I just figure style's important. Anyway, I've gotta say, I was looking at your hair, and load of other people's hair 'round here, and, you know, we just don't get that kind of colour back home. They weren't gonna do anything with my hair, just spike it up a bit, but I wanted some colour in. Think I'll keep it, too, I like it like this."

"You don't think that'll hurt your chances in the Arena?" Caesar asks, his surprise and concern apparently genuine.

Flow shrugs, running her hand over the tips of her hair-spikes. "What, 'cause I can't hide so well? I'm not gonna hide. I'm in there to fight, not run away. But if I _do_ need to hide, guess I'll just cover it up with something. I promise, Caesar, when you see me again, I'll still have the best hair out've all of us."

Caesar, and the audience, laugh. There's something disarming about her cocky, vain attitude, which feels more like something you'd expect from the Career districts. It carries on through the discussion of her score (she makes an irreverent remark about the Gamemakers clearly not looking hard enough), her feelings about the other contestants ("Going down. All of them, they're going down."), and her tactics for the Games themselves ("Hit fast, hit hard, run off laughing before they know what's hit them!"). By the time Caesar draws her into conversation about her family and friends back home (where, if you believe her, she must be the most popular and best-loved citizen of the District), the audience have been caught up in it, smiling and applauding. She'll get a few sponsors on the strength of her performance, that seems certain.

Phox Allerdyce, the male tribute, puts on a decent show as well, but his attitude could hardly be further from hers. He strides over to Caesar, looking taller than ever in a tailored suit of some metallic bronze-coloured fabric, and shakes Caesar's hand firmly and solemnly before folding himself into the chair. He isn't as brusque as Indigo was, but he doesn't waste words, either; his voice is calm and level, his stare as cold as ever. His greatest strength, he tells Caesar, is his height, which means he can run faster, climb higher, and hit further than most of his opponents. He is happy with his score, but doesn't elaborate, and he will not be drawn out into talking about his family, his friends, or his home. When Caesar asks him what he thinks his greatest challenge will be, he mulls over the question for several seconds before finally replying, simply, "One, Two, and Twelve."

Unlike most of the tributes so far, he doesn't boast about how certain his victory is, but nor does he mourn over imminent defeat. Eventually, just before the buzzer goes, Caesar asks Phox straight-out whether he thinks he'll win.

"I win, or I die," Phox says calmly, evenly, and fixes the cameras with his unsettlingly cold stare. "So I guess I just have to win."

It makes an undeniable impression. There's a split second of silence after that remark, and then the buzzer sounds. Caesar springs back into action. "Phox Allerdyce of District Five, ladies and gentlemen!"

Even uncertain applause sounds thunderous, with the numbers packed into the crowd. Phox unfolds himself unhurriedly from the interview chair, stalking back to his own seat without rush or show as the first tribute from Six is called up.

Valaria Morgan is small and waifish, and looks even smaller as she passes Phox, her pale no-colour eyes flickering up to his face for a moment. In her gossamer white dress, she looks ghostly, washed-out and otherworldly. She looks around nervously at the cameras as she shakes Caesar's hand and perches on the edge of the seat. At thirteen, she's one of the younger tributes, but the least that can be said for her is that she carries herself better than Deb did. Her voice is high and thin, but it travels, and after a few largely unsuccessful attempts to draw her out, she seems to relax a little.

"It was interesting," she says slowly, when Caesar asks her about her journey to the Capitol. "They build the trains at home, but I'd never been on one before. There were lots of secret places. It was interesting."

That sets the tone for her interview, really. She's not a _bad_ subject for interview, not like Deb, but she speaks uncertainly, and doesn't seem to have much to say. Her parents and her big sister are watching at home. She misses them. She doesn't know how she feels about her score. She hopes she'll do well in the Games, but she's nervous. It isn't bad, it's just... forgettable. There are a few dutiful laughs and a smattering of applause, and most of what she says disappears from everyone's mind the moment she's back in her own seat.

Mac Lemann, the other tribute, is almost as bad. He looks short and squat in his dark violet suit, his chestnut hair slicked back; it doesn't suit him. In the interview, he speaks slowly, with the visible appearance of thinking about every word, and his brow furrows at each question Caesar gives him. Maybe he's more intelligent than he looks, maybe it's an act, and a few people will lay their bets on that basis, but he does just seem _dull_. He doesn't seem to have a plan, and when Caesar asks him what his strengths in the arena are, he blinks as if he doesn't understand the question.

Caesar tries again: "What do you think you've got that the others don't? The Capitol, your District, they must all be wondering how you got that seven – I know I am. It was very impressive."

Mac shrugs, but comprehension dawns with the same slow inevitability as his smile. "I'm strong?" he suggests, sounding not entirely certain. "I can fight. Bare-handed. I can build, too, make things. I don't think they cared about that."

"But it could help," Caesar says encouragingly, nodding, and smiles. "It's good, to be able to make things. Means you're not stuck out in the wilds of the Arena without anything to work with. What kind of things do you make, Mac?"

There's no pause this time, and only a brief frown. "Buildings," he says, with that slow, winning smile again. "Stations, for the trains, at home. On the weekends, when I'm not in school. I help out. Fetch and carry. And I like making other things, too, but buildings are the best. They're..." He gesticulates, looking for the words. "They're _big_. You don't have'ta be big to make them, but they're big. Everyone sees them. There's something special 'bout that. I'd like to get back to that. When I'm home." He lapses into silence again, his smile fading, and doesn't seem to hear Caesar's next question.

He's still sitting there when the buzzer goes, silent and stolid, looking somehow lost.


	5. Interviews II

**A/N: **For various reasons, I changed the names of the D11 tributes to be a bit more D11-ish. I did make sure the changes were reflected in earlier chapters, but just in case: Emilie has become Amaranth (a commonly-farmed crop) and Solomon has become Sart (a name derived from "assart", meaning the burning of old plants to make land more fertile). So now you know.

* * *

><p><strong>5 - Interviews (Second Phase)<strong>

"It's... well, I got three brothers back home, you know?" Blye Combes sits opposite Caesar with one ankle folded over the other. She's only fifteen, but the same aura hangs about her which so many people picked up on in her photograph with the scores – a certain quality of _tiredness_. She doesn't seem like a teenager, and although she's clearly been schooled by her Escort, she seems to find it hard to smile. She's pretty, made prettier by her figure-hugging black dress, and her nut-brown skin and wavy black hair have been buffed and treated until they're soft and flawless, but it's more than just her looks which make her seem tired. More than her voice, too, which is clear and firm. It's hard to put a finger on what, exactly, makes her seem so _old_. "Little boys. Gunnar, he's six, and Will's three. And Carl's just a baby. And I guess I'm just worried about them."

Caesar looks appropriately sympathetic, nodding understandingly. "It sounds like it's very hard for you to be away from your family."

"Yes. Yes, of course." She looks surprised at the question, and for a split second, a little worried. "Why wouldn't it be?"

"Is there anything you'd like to say to them?" he prompts, reaching over to touch her hand.

For a moment, Blye closes her eyes, taking a deep breath, and even opens her mouth to give an answer, but in the end, she just shakes her head, with a little smile. "Not really. Just... that I'll be home soon, I guess. And I love them." It's clear that the subject makes her uncomfortable, so as the time ticks away, Caesar changes the subject, and the last minute or so of the interview is spent in a gentle discussion of her District and the Capitol, that old standby when a tribute has discussed all the pertinent information they seem to be willing to delve into. She returns to her seat with slow, measured steps, looking slightly shellshocked.

Nate, her District partner, is a little easier to draw out. He's cheerful, although clearly a little uncertain of what he's doing; he shakes Caesar's hand firmly and drops back into the seat with a smile. His outfit is a little more attention-grabbing than Blye's; a bright green shirt, a gold suit patterned with twining red and green curls, bright slashes of colour along his square jawline. Unlike Blye, though, he needs the boost; he might be more apparently at ease on the stage, but he lacks her enigmatic air and strange melancholy. He's also very clearly aware that he has to impress, and, paradoxically, that makes him less impressive; his eyes constantly flicker to the other tributes, especially the Milligans, sitting at the back of the stage.

He talks quickly and animatedly, gesturing with surprisingly slender hands as he discusses the odd mixture of terror and excitement he felt when he was Reaped, and how there was this weird moment, just as he hopped up onstage, where all he could think was _now I'll never get laid_. There's a hearty laugh at that, from the audience and from Caesar, who tells him that if he goes home victorious, that won't be a problem, will it? Nate laughs, shrugs, waves it off, and changes the subject again, flitting on to how relieved he was by his score, and maybe he will get home and get laid after all. Throughout the interview, Caesar hardly gets a word in edgeways; Nate seems determined to get as much information in as he can, get remembered, push himself into people's minds past the current favourite who he's cursed to be an opening act for. He barely stops for breath, and Caesar has to tell him to be quiet when the buzzer goes. The thought of being quiet, going back to his seat at the back of the stage, seems to frighten Nate, and he has to be asked three times before he finally goes. The look he gives to Bethan, as he takes his seat, is pure poison.

She doesn't respond, in words or in kind. She just sits, face hard and unreadable, waiting a moment longer than most of the other tributes, and then makes her way unhurriedly to the front of the stage. She's wearing a strapless sheath dress spangled with diamonds like constellations, the indigo velvet setting off her pale skin and making the scars littering her shoulders and bared neck stand out sharper than ever. There's a slight unsteadiness to her movement – her heels are clearly higher than she's used to, and occasionally her balance slips a little – but it doesn't seem to bother her. When she shakes Caesar's hand, looking him up and down with something like distaste, her nails dig slightly into his hand. He rallies remarkably, sitting down again with a professionally charming smile.

"So, Bethan. You're the talk of Panem. How does that feel?"

"Panem talks about a lot of things." Her voice is cool, neutral. She makes eye contact with him and holds it, unblinking, her blue eyes flat and sharp. "It's me today. It'll be something else tomorrow. The public's fickle, everyone knows that. Why should I care what they're talking about?"

Even Caesar blinks a little at that, his eyebrows drawing together slightly. Panem frowns collectively in confusion. Is she stupid? Didn't anyone explain to her the importance of public opinion? He hesitates a moment before pushing on. "You don't think it'll give you an edge?"

"Oh, I'm sure it will." Still that unnerving coolness, that level stare, her lips pressed together into a hard, unforgiving line. "But I don't care about that, either. You see, I'm not trying to win."

Before, the crowd's confusion was a susurrus, a gentle wave of whispers. Now it's positively a roar. Caesar leans in close, not disguising his own surprise. "Why not?"

Her lip curls, as if in disgust, the first expression she's shown since coming on stage. "Isn't it obvious? Only one person can go home from this. Only _one_." It's heavy, laden with meaning, and the cameras follow her gaze to Daniel. His jaw's gone slack, horrified. He half-rises from his seat before remembering where he is and collapsing back into place; the screens track his face as he mouths _Beth, what the hell?_

Bethan, however, seems unaffected. Her eyes turn back to Caesar, her expression opaque as ever, her voice still calm and clear. "You've seen what I'm like. Nobody needs some crazy bitch back home. They need people like him. People who look after people. So I'm going home in a box."

"That's, um..." Caesar hesitates, uncharacteristically. "That's... very noble of you. Very noble indeed. So tell me, Bethan, the Reaping... I'm sure everyone's wondering, how did it feel? How did you feel when you heard his name?"

Now she shows expression; just a little, just a hint of softness at the corners of her mouth. Her eyes turn downwards, looking at her hands clenched in her lap, and for several seconds, she's quiet. When she speaks again, her voice is entirely different; it's soft, low, oddly childlike compared to her very adult demeanour before.

"It felt..." She hesitates, scraping the edge of her nail against the line of her wrist. "It felt like someone ripped out my heart and showed it to me. I didn't think I still had..." And she trails off, swallowing, glancing up at the crowd from the corner of her eyes, then lifts her head again. If this is staged, it's a masterwork; the audience is riveted, holding their breath now. Her voice hardens again, the mask falling back into place (if this is the mask; if the vulnerability isn't the mask), and she turns her head, cold eyes sweeping across all the other tributes. "If it had to happen, though, I'm glad I was Reaped too. Because this way, all of you can know that if you touch him, if you so much as lay a finger on him, you won't just die." Her jaw's tighter than ever, pulled so taut that the muscle under her ear thrums with the tension. "I will destroy you. I will hunt you down, I will knock you to the ground, and while you're down, I will haul out your guts and hold you down with them. I will make a million little cuts all over your skin, and leave you to bleed yourself dry. I will crush your jaw so you can't scream, I will slit your throat so you can't breathe, I will stand over you and watch you struggle for your last breath, watch your eyes as you try to beg without your voice, I will make you wish with every fibre of your being that you'd blown yourself sky-high at the Cornucopia rather than risk killing my brother, my twin, my heart! I will destroy you if you even try, _do you understand me?_" The crescendo of her voice peaks in a shout, and she's risen to her feet. Her back's to the audience now, her scarred shoulders heaving, her fists clenched at her sides. Even the Careers look more a little unnerved. Even Titus. Oddly enough, Alice Calle, the tribute from Nine, is among the few who glare right back.

There's still thirty seconds of her interview left, but she turns back to Caesar and the cameras, showing her teeth. The mask has definitely slipped now – the mask of vulnerability and the mask of calm both – and she looks what she is; insane. Her blue eyes aren't cold but wild, her lip is curled back like an animal's, and her chest heaves wildly as she begins to get herself back under control. "That's all I have to say," she says at last, her voice almost steady again as the mask slams back into place. "Thank you."

There's no applause to follow her back to her seat, only a kind of breathless, stunned silence. When she gets back to her place, Daniel catches her arm, and, before she can sit down, stands up to pull her into a tight hug. The cameras zoom in, showing his face. He's crying, trying not to, even as he strokes her back comfortingly. It shouldn't be allowed, but nobody moves to stop him. The Capitol watches, mesmerised. This is _drama_.

"You're an idiot, Beth," he tells her, quite clearly, as he finally lets go of her and turns forwards to face the crowd. But he squeezes her hand tightly for a moment before he heads to the front of the stage himself. After his sister, he looks remarkable simply because he's so ordinary, just a plain, borderline-handsome teenager with a slightly sheepish look about him. His eyes are soft brown, not her cold blue, and he wipes them on his sleeve as he shakes Caesar's hand. "Hello, Caesar."

"Hello, Daniel." Caesar, ever the professional, has regained his composure much faster than most of the audience, but there's an extra degree of warmth in his voice.

"Dan. Please. It's just Dan." Daniel smiles, a little shakily, and definitely looking embarrassed now. "Listen, don't believe a word she says about me. She's ridiculously selfless, I'm sure we all know that now, but I'm really not that special."

"Don't talk yourself down, Dan," Caesar chides gently, smiling back. "I don't believe a word of it. You must be quite impressive, for anyone to care so much about you."

Dan shrugs one shoulder. "Maybe. I don't know. All I know is, if Bethan was the only Milligan in the Games this year, I'd put all the money I had on her. Maybe I'm not the worst tribute here, but I know I'm not the best, and it won't be fair if she doesn't win. Because she can. I know she can. If I wasn't here, I'd know she would." It doesn't sound like a lie, either, or like he believes it's an exaggeration; to him, it's clearly just a statement of fact, made casually and with absolute certainty despite the tears still jeopardising his makeup. "I'd like her to win. She deserves to win. And one of us has to go home, like she said. I mean, if nothing else, there's our little brother, Cieran. You can't ask him to lose us both at once."

"Tell me about Cieran," Caesar suggests. "You must be a very close-knit family, from what we've seen here. I'm sure we'd all like to hear about your family, what it's like to be so close to each other."

So Dan does. His interview is far more standard than his sister's from that point on. He discusses his family, his work in the factories, how he was almost happy when Bethan was Reaped because he knew she could win, and horrified when he was Reaped as much for her sake as his own. He talks about how he knew it would end up like this. He's remarkably cheerful, given the drama that went before, gregarious and matter-of-fact, but when the buzzer goes for the end of his interview, there's hardly a dry eye in the house.

"Daniel Milligan, everyone!" Caesar cries, dabbing ostentatiously at his eyes as a roar of applause follows Dan back to his seat. "And now, from District Nine, give a warm welcome to Alice Calle!"

She scowls as she walks up to him, and the glare she gives Dan as she passes him could freeze grown men in their tracks. Nor does she pretend to smile as she shakes Caesar's hand. Whatever training her prep team gave her, it clearly wasn't enough to counteract her resentment at being so blatantly overshadowed by the Milligans.

"They're full of themselves," she says flatly, before Caesar even opens his mouth. "Sure, they've got a sob story. Don't we all? She shouts a lot and's got anger issues, he's all goo-goo eyes and poor-little-me, but if you're falling for that, you're even stupider than I thought. What've we seen from them, really? They haven't done anything to earn all this attention. Just got an unlucky Reaping. And we all got unlucky, 'cause we're here." Her jaw juts defiantly for a moment, and then she relaxes slightly, point made. "What were you gonna say?"

Caesar smiles. "Well, I_ was_ going to ask how you felt about your chances, but that seems like a bit of a redundant question now. But you've obviously got pretty strong feelings when it comes to them. You don't think they're a challenge, then?"

"Didn't say that, did I?" Alice raises an eyebrow, brushing her hands over her knee-length scarlet skirt. "'Course they're a challenge. But so's everyone else. So'm I, even if I don't look it. The difference is, they're a challenge that's playing everyone else for saps. If one of them wins, it'll only be because they're playing the sympathy card for all it's worth. And, hey, think about it. As far as sympathy goes, twenty-three of us are gonna die. That doesn't get sympathy, but as soon as two of us happen to be from the same mom, that's enough reason to be sympathetic? All right, I'll try it." She points at Simon Naysmith, her District partner, who looks at her finger like he might at the business end of a Peacekeeper's gun. "Let's say I'm his long-lost sister. Am I getting a sudden outpouring of support yet?"

She actually does seem to be; her sassy, take-no-prisoners attitude is just irreverent enough to be appealing, and there's a ripple of appreciative laughter from the audience. Caesar laughs, too, clearly content to sit back and let her get on with it. She seems to be done, though, sitting back in the seat with her arms folded, shaking her head slightly, and after a moment, he moves the interview along, asking her what she thinks her greatest strength is going to be, to which she just shrugs. "I'm not stupid, I'm not gonna put all my cards on the table now. Let's just say there's more ways to win this thing than by fighting, though. It's been done before. People've won without ever killing."

"But will you?" He leans in slightly, with every appearance of interest. "If you have to?"

Alice shrugs, brushing a dark curl of hair out of her eyes. "'Course I will. And I won't regret it, either. We do what we gotta do, right?"

That seems to sum up her attitude. The interview goes on for a minute or two more, and her pragmatic, unimpressed attitude gains a few more laughs and spates of applause from the crowd, but she's said her piece, and she's quieter after that, recalcitrant and closed-off. That's probably a boon for the tribute who has to follow her, and Simon needs all the boons he can get. He looks terrified by the cameras and the crowds, if not quite as badly as Deb was, and the sweat's visible on his brow as he clasps Caesar's hand limply and sits down.

There's a lot in common between him and Deb, actually. Both are dressed in profoundly unimpressive outfits, for one thing; like her, Simon is dressed in greyscale, a dove-grey suit and black shirt, with the only colour being his tie, which is the yellow-white of old parchment. Like her, too, he's obviously shy, and it takes Caesar significant effort to draw him out. Unlike Deb, though, once he's been coaxed out of his shell, Simon isn't exciteable. He doesn't gush like she did. Instead, he speaks in a surprisingly crisp voice, choosing his words carefully, and speaks with a slow kind of care.

He's the son of a healer, he reveals, and he hopes to be a doctor himself when he's older. He knows that doesn't sound like a huge recommendation, but – he reminds the crowd, with a slightly awkward smile – it does mean he knows plants better than most people, so he's got an edge when it comes to survival. "And, of course," he adds, brushing his mousy hair back with one hand, "it doesn't just go for edible plants and things like that. If I'm hurt, or if I ally with someone and they get hurt, I'll know what to do. It's easy to count me out because I'm not a fighter, but I have my own skills."

"I can believe it," Caesar agrees with an encouraging smile, as the buzzer goes. "The best of luck to you, Simon. Simon Naysmith, everybody!"

Simon greets the applause with the same frozen fear leaving the interviewee's chair as he did coming up to it, and he seems profoundly grateful to collapse back into his own seat next to Alice, as Terra takes his place at centre stage. She's been painstakingly primped and made up, with her hair in a complex plait and her brown skin artificially softened, but she's still no beauty, and that – along with her size – makes her stand out among the other girl tributes, who, with their stylists' help, all look at least pretty. Terra is... homely, to put it kindly, with a broad, square face and a long nose, and slightly crossed eyes which no amount of makeup seem able to make pop. Still, she smiles broadly and genuinely, her hand dwarfing Caesar's as she greets him.

From her appearance alone, a lot of people are expecting a repeat of Mac Lemann's performance; somebody slow and a little dull, who has to be prodded every step of the way. But Terra proves to be surprisingly intelligent, even witty. As soon as Caesar asks his first question, about her hopes for the Games, she's away; she compares the tributes to the livestock she knows, weaving in an in-depth description of her life in Ten alongside the more simple explanation of her hopes for the Games. She thinks she'll do well, she says, because she's strong but also because, having worked on a ranch her whole life, she knows what she's doing out in the middle of nowhere, and that takes her onto an anecdote about getting lost on the vast fields of her family's ranch when she was just a little girl. She's smart, but more importantly, from the perspective of the viewers, she's confident. She does acknowledge that she's not going to be the favourite of most bookies, because she's not an experienced fighter, and that she knows it won't be easy, but there's an ease about her that's been lacking – understandably enough – from a lot of the tributes before her.

She doesn't talk much about her family. Her discussion of home centres around her ranch, and the animals on it, and when Caesar asks her about her family – does she have brothers and sisters? Does she miss them? What do her parents do? – she's evasive, the questions sliding away under another slew of anecdotes and musings. She hardly stops talking for the whole three minutes, but when the buzzer goes, she very suddenly slips back into silence, shaking Caesar's hand again and walking back to her seat with complete equanimity.

She's replaced by Arthur Ackerman, the boy with the magic tricks, who gets the audience's attention from the moment he makes his entrance, largely due to the fact that his entrance consists of a remarkably athletic cartwheel and forwards roll to the front of the stage, where, landing on one knee, he plucks the rose out of the buttonhole of his harlequin-patterned tailcoat and makes it disappear, just like he did in the parade. This time, though, when it reappears, it's from behind Caesar's ear as the two shake hands, which makes Caesar and most of the crowd laugh.

Arthur replaces the flower in his buttonhole with a completely straight face, fastidiously straightening his jacket as he takes a seat. It's only a moment, though, before he's back to his antics, producing a pack of cards from his top hat and shuffling them expertly before holding them out to Caesar. "Pick a card, any card. Don't tell me what it is."

Laughing, Caesar does as he's told, and holds the Queen of Hearts up to the crowd so they can see. Arthur groans theatrically, reaching over and plucking the card out of Caesar's fingers. "See, now you've ruined the trick! I can see it on the screens if you do that! No, no," he goes on, smiling broadly, as Caesar opens his mouth, "I deny your apology! You've ruined my whole act now! I guess we'll just have to move on to the boring questions bit." He gives another exaggerated sigh, and starts shuffling his deck of cards again, then makes them disappear; drawing the Queen of Hearts from behind his ear, he tucks it into his hatband and gestures for Caesar to continue.

"That's impressive," Caesar acknowledges, his teeth flashing white as he laughs. "Where did you learn to do that?"

"A magician never reveals his sources." Arthur taps his nose, smiling sidelong. "It's what I do, back home. At the market. It pays the bills." He sighs a little, with the same dramatic air as he's given everything else. "It's just not the same without my glamorous assistant, though..."

Caesar waggles his eyebrows, appropriately suggestive. "Glamorous assistant, eh?"

"Oh, yeah." Arthur nods solemnly, tipping his hat slightly. "Loyal, quick-witted, _extremely_ flexible..." Some of the crowd are blinking at him, taken aback by this from the mouth of a thirteen-year-old. He laughs and tips them a wink. "Cats are very good like that."

"So the cat, the one that followed you on stage at the Reaping, that's your glamorous assistant?" Caesar's grin seems to be in rivalry with Arthur's, two born showmen facing off against each other.

"He is, he is. His name's Enzo. He dances. I'd get him to demonstrate, only I got told he couldn't come with me. It's a shame, he'd've been fantastic in the Arena. I did ask if I could have him as my token, but apparently not. Guess it's only fair to count cats as a weapon. I mean, there's gotta be enough room to swing a cat in there..." That gets a laugh, which obviously encourages him – not that he needs the encouragement. It also gives Caesar a good chance to shift the subject away from Arthur's home District and towards his chances in the Arena. Arthur is just as cheerful and forthcoming about that as he was about his cat, reminding Caesar that sleight of hand isn't just useful for magic tricks and that magicians are experts at making themselves invisible. If he's scared of what's to come, or intimidated by the other tributes and their confidence, he doesn't show it; his entire interview is ceaseless patter, and he has the crowd and Caesar in stitches by the time the buzzer goes. He presents Caesar with the Queen of Hearts from his hatband – "A memento, I'll have that back next time I see you," – and bounces back to his seat, rolling his hat down his arm and putting it down between his feet as he sits. The applause is deafening; whether or not he'll survive, it's impossible not to respect his showmanship.

In her own way, the same is true for Amaranth Drake, the District Eleven tribute who comes after him. She isn't as cheerful or as silly as Arthur, but that doesn't matter, because she doesn't have to be. Her dark skin shines under the lights, the gold dust judiciously brushed over her cheeks and eyes glimmering and shining, lending an ethereal edge to her earthy sensuality. Her hair is still up in cornrows, but woven through with gold thread and fastened into a complex crown of hair. Her dress, too, is red-gold, shimmery and iridescent, a full-length gown which slips off one shoulder to show the smooth line of her clavicle, the skirt split almost to the hip so that one long leg is visible when she walks. She's mesmerisingly, hypnotically beautiful, and she knows it.

She greets Caesar with a smile, sits with her bared leg still visible, and begins immediately to play the audience like a fine-tuned violin. A lot of tributes take a sexy angle, but Amaranth has it positively mastered. She somehow manages to talk for the whole three minutes without saying anything much at all, and still have half the Capitol infatuated with her by the time she's done. She laughs, gently and lightly, and the crowd laugh along obediently even if they don't know why. And when, with a smile, she shakes Caesar's hand again and leaves centre-stage – her hips swaying almost caricaturishly – the Capitol and the cameras are sad to see her go.

Her District partner, the crippled boy, nods to her as he passes, but they don't exchange a word. Sart Jones is a starker contrast than ever to Amaranth, looking serious and severe in a black and silver suit with a very adult cut. He seems unfazed by the cameras, just as he did at the parade, shaking Caesar's hand without flinching and sitting down calmly. He's very quiet, though, as Caesar tries to draw him out, and says nothing on the subject of home, or what he likes about the Capitol, or any of the other topics Caesar raises in preference to talking about the Games themselves. The audience are starting to think he might be mute by about thirty seconds into the interview, when, suddenly, he speaks, cutting across Caesar's question about pets in a clear, measured, creepily adult tone.

"I see what you're trying to do," he says, meeting Caesar's eyes with his own big brown ones. "You're trying to put me at my ease. To make this less depressing for all of us. But let's be honest with ourselves here, because you know it, I know it, everyone in Panem knows it: this time tomorrow, I'll be dead." His voice doesn't waver as he says it; he might as well be discussing the price of grain. "Now, we can lie about that. We can pretend that there's a chance I'll stand here in a week or two with a circlet on my head. But you and I both know that it's a lie, a pretty lie but still a lie. I'm twelve years old, Mr Flickerman, and small for my age, and weak for my size, with an arm that doesn't work and a training score for which the only word is 'dire', and tomorrow I go into a situation where twenty-three people are trying to kill me. It's okay. You can admit it. My feelings won't be hurt." He turns his head now, scanning the audience, and closes his eyes. For the first time they've seen, clear emotion crosses his face, a brief flash of grief. "I suppose I'm lucky. Most people don't get their funeral before they die. I got to say goodbye to my family. They got to say goodbye to me. That's more than most people get."

The silence spreads out in a wave. Several people – the same ones who cried for Bethan and Dan – are dabbing at their eyes. Even Caesar looks profoundly moved.

After that, true to what he said, Sart's interview takes on an unpleasantly funereal tone, despite Caesar's best efforts. He does mention his family, briefly – his mother, his sister, his sister's husband; he never mentions a father – and talks a little about how he's actually glad he got to see the Capitol before he died. He's quiet, steady, slow, and he nods to the camera as the buzzer goes, reaching up to shake Caesar's hand with the first smile he's given so far, a sad little quirk of the mouth.

By the time he sits back down, and Willow Selkirk takes his place, that smile's completely gone.

After the powerful performances before her – Arthur, Amaranth, and now Sart – Willow has a lot to live up to. She does have the advantage of making an impression with her outfit – a feathery, short dress in iridescent crow-feather black, which shines in the light and catches the eye – but it isn't enough. She's shy and clearly uncomfortable in the spotlight, and while her stylists have plaited her long black hair to prevent her hiding behind it, she still shows a tendency to fiddle with the ends of her plaits awkwardly as she speaks.

She's quiet, speaking softly and unclearly, and it's not clear what angle she's going for, if she's going for an angle at all. She won't discuss training in much depth, but does admit that she's better with weapons than she'd expected to be, so she just wants to get something she can fight with and try to defend herself. Caesar changes the subject, to talk about her District and how the Capitol feels to her, which she seems a little more willing to talk about. She thinks Twelve is a good place, even with all its problems, because it's small and secure and everybody knows everybody else. The Capitol intimidates her. She can't imagine what it must be like to live in a place where so much is going on, with people who don't know you and buildings big enough to get lost in. After a moment, she acknowledges that it must be exciting, that Capitol people are lucky to have the opportunity to experience so much, and her angle becomes clear; she's the innocent, the provincial girl who just wants to be part of this glittering, civilised world. She talks breathlessly about the wonders of Capitol food and fashion, but also about how alien they all seem to her. Her discussion of Twelve is carefully calculated to be loving and nostalgic, while at the same time presenting the District as backwards and uncivilised. As she goes on, continually pitch-perfect despite her clear shyness, it becomes clear that her mentor – the mentor the District Twelve tributes share – must have spent more time with Willow than makes any sense. To polish a performance this much, from someone who was so clearly unprepared a few days ago, must have taken all the preparation time they had, as if Seireh, their mentor, didn't spend any time with Eoin at all.

When he springs into action, that makes sense. Like Arthur, it's hard to imagine that his performance _needed_ any time at all. He already stands out, as he must in the Seam, by his looks; red hair, a rarity in Twelve, and height to rival Phox's, without any of the wiry thinness Phox has. He's handsome, strong-looking, and has a charmingly rakish smile, and he grins for the cameras like he was born to it, lounging back in the interviewee's seat in his tight-fitting, slate-grey suit.

It doesn't take long at all to get him going. In fact, the first question Caesar asks – about his unbelievably high training score – sets the tone for the entire interview; Eoin just grins, grey eyes crinkling, and says lightly, "Oh, you know, I just flexed my unbelievably strong muscles and tipped them a wink, like this, and they just about fainted. Isn't that right, guys?" he calls up to the Gamemakers, sitting in their high box, and throws them a jaunty salute. "Nobody can resist the sheer animal magnetism of a Costigan. Why, I bet even you're attracted to me right now, Caesar, you dog you."

Caesar laughs, tilting his hand to and fro in a _maybe, maybe-not_ kind of gesture, which makes Eoin laugh, too. "You think you're in with a good chance, then?"

"Well, take a look at this masterpiece of the human form and tell me I'm not!" Eoin shoots back, and stands up to strike a ridiculous strong-man pose before settling back into his seat. Against the backing of appreciative laughter, he shrugs his broad shoulders. "Seriously, though, I'm not just a dashingly handsome, ridiculously strong, undeniably wonderful piece of biological engineering. I'm way more than that. For instance, I'm also incredibly smart, extremely witty, brave, noble, kind, and – yes, ladies – single." That gets another good, solid laugh from the crowd, which he basks in for a moment, accepting their applause with a joking signal for more of it.

"Modest, too, I see!" Caesar laughs, clapping. "If you're everything you say you are, I'm sure you'll have no trouble. So, tell me, if you win..."

"When, Caesar. _When_ I win."

"I'm sorry, _when_ you win, do you have a plan for the future?"

"I certainly do." Eoin strokes an invisible beard, putting on an exaggeratedly serious expression. "I fully intend to impress President Snow so much with my wit and wisdom, in the Games and after them, that he has no choice but to take me on as his protege. And should he ever decide to retire – heaven forbid – I'll nobly accept his offer to stand as President in his place. That sound like a good life plan to you, Caesar?" Then, when Caesar hesitates a moment, clearly uncertain how to respond, Eoin deftly diffuses the building tension with, "Be grateful I'm setting my sights unrealistically high. I could just be stealing _your_ job!"

Still, he's overstepped the line there, and he seems to realise it, because he reins in his performance from that point on. He continues to laugh and joke throughout his interview, until, near the end, Caesar raises the question on many people's minds about Eoin; had he really been crying before he went to the train?

Eoin hesitates a moment, his ever-present smile fading. "Yeah. Yeah, I was crying. I mean, I could lie and tell you it was hayfever or something, but... no. I was crying. I'm not ashamed to admit it." He takes a deep breath, pushing back his hair with both hands. "See, it's like this. Earlier, Alice said we've all got sob stories, right? Well, I'm going to subject you to mine. There's a lot of us in my family. Six of us. Me, Dara, Rashel, Roisin, Ashlen, and Sean. I'm the oldest, and since our dad died, I guess I'm... well, I'm kind of their dad now. Closest thing our family's got to a dad. It's not that I don't think I'll get back to them, it's just..." There's nothing theatrical about the way he wipes his eye; it might just be dust, but nobody really believes that. "When Sean came to say goodbye... he's six years old. Barely even remembers his dad. But he started crying, and he said 'Don't go, I don't want you to go, we need you'. Which is... it's almost exactly what I said to my dad, when he was lying there dying. And it just kind of hit me, I've got to get back. I've got to. They need me."

The silence is momentary, stretching out to the buzzer. The moment it goes off, though, Eoin's smile springs back to his face, and he leaps to his feet, raising his hands. "Thank you, thank you! I've been Eoin Costigan, he's Caesar Flickerman, you're a wonderful audience, thanks for coming out!"

The applause almost drowns out the opening notes of Panem's anthem. The Games have well and truly begun.


	6. The Cornucopia

**6 - The Cornucopia**

Everyone, even the Capitol citizens who love to lie in bed every morning, is up that morning. They huddle around the screens in their living rooms or dining rooms or bedrooms, watching. Work stops. Gatherings stop. Everyone in Panem watches, spellbound, as they get their first glimpse of this year's Arena.

It is vast, sharp, and glittering with a deadly kind of beauty. The image passes from camera to camera, showing the great rock bowl that is this year's Arena, where cliffs fall away sharply into nothingness, jagged rocks grasp up at the sky, and to north, south, east, and west, four snow-capped mountains blot out the sun. There is no shortage of water, in this year's Arena – each mountain holds a deep, clear lake fed by a spring – but what there is a shortage of is shelter. Most of the plants are small, scrubby things, which might be edible but certainly won't provide shade or cover, and the rocky landscape stretches away in every direction, jagged and harsh. It's clear what the Gamemakers are going for. In this Arena, there's nowhere to hide.

The Cornucopia, glittering and golden, rests at the very centre of this vast rock bowl, in a low plateau criss-crossed by deep rifts. Nearby is the only real cover available in this Arena – a small wooded area of pines and firs, sweeping up to the foothills of the northern mountain. The Cornucopia itself is out in the open, and must be visible from miles around. It isn't the strategic foothold it might usually be.

But the viewers are distracted from their assessment of the Arena as the daises around the Cornucopia begin to rise, each carrying a tribute. The tributes' uniforms are clearly designed for the territory; they wear thick jackets and strong boots, with fingerless black gloves and tight black shirts and trousers. The jackets, though, have bright reflective stripes down the sides, and the point of those is clear to anyone who thinks about it long enough – they can have warmth, or they can have camouflage, but they can't have both.

The cameras take advantage of the moments before the gong to zoom in on the reactions of each tribute. For once, they show no favouritism, lingering no longer on the crowd's favourites than on anyone else. They sweep in a slow circle around the tributes, giving each a couple of seconds. Some – Titus, Flow, and Harriet in particular - stand steady, chins raised, trying to give the best impression they can. Others, like Althea and Phox, have dropped into a sprinting stance, ready to shoot off their platforms the instant the gongs go. Several of the others look lost, uncertain, standing there with their eyes flicking between their fellow tributes and the Arena around them. None of them, not even Arthur, are smiling – that is, none until the cameras settle on Eoin, the giant tribute from District Twelve, who is looking around several of the younger tributes with a smile that's half-reassuring, half-apologetic. Unsurprisingly, it doesn't seem to be having the desired effect. Arthur, Rendwick, and Valaria avoid his gaze, and Sart meets it with a slight shake of his head, toying with the thin woven bracelet on his withered wrist. Bethan, when the cameras switch to her, regards Eoin with something like disgust for a moment before looking at Dan and giving a small nod, which he returns. Slowly, the tributes settle, the tension growing in the air, the stillness broken only by the wind howling in the mountaintops. Panem holds its breath.

The gong echoes off the rocks like thunder.

Suddenly, all the nervous energy stored in the circle of children explodes outwards. Some bolt away from the Cornucopia, low to the ground, taking the better part of valour. Dan, surprisingly to some, is at the head of those who flee; he darts away like an arrow from a bow, long legs all but a blur, and vanishes from view in a few seconds. Sart, the little crippled boy, weaves and ducks as he sprints for the woods, pulling Deb out of his way and dodging past Valaria and Simon. They flee and scatter, heads down and heavy boots thudding, praying that the other tributes are too distracted to catch them.

Others charge headlong into the bloodbath, knowing how low their chances are if they can't pick up weapons or equipment. These are the majority, the ones who know they have to take the risk. In a moment, the rock plateau around the Cornucopia is a seething mass of weapons, fists, and spurting blood.

The first to fall, only seconds after the gong rings out, is Rendwick Herriot, the little boy from Three. He stands frozen in indecision on his platform, his blue eyes wide and terrified, pale and shocked, right up to the moment that Althea, who's first to the Cornucopia, flings a knife through his throat. His hands come up, slowly, to the sudden gush of blood, and he dies without a sound – or, at least, without a sound that's audible over the chaos of the bloodbath.

The cameras don't linger. They're focused on the knot of tributes around the Cornucopia, the desperate melee which sets the scene for the whole Games. Julian and Harriet wrestle for a trident, faces twisted in frustration, until she barks something at him and pushes him away. He rolls, coming to his feet, and snatches for a spear, looking for a moment as if he's considering using it on her, but then he's lost in the press of people, and his spear comes solidly through the stomach of Arthur Ackerman, who stumbles back with a look of shock. There's a flash of blonde hair behind him, and a solid crunch as Bethan breaks his neck – turning his slow death into a much faster one - and grabs the backpack he was holding in the same violent movement. She swings the backpack as a weapon, knocking an off-guard Julian aside and running on, her head down, towards the best prizes at the heart of the Cornucopia. She's not the only one to take that risk; Titus, Althea, Wonder, and Phox are all already at the Cornucopia, the three Careers rounding on Phox as he darts and slips and swings. Bethan grabs their attention at the same time as she grabs a belt of throwing knives, slinging it over her shoulder and turning to bolt. In the moment of distraction, Phox strikes with the sword he's snatched, and the lucky blow knocks Wonder's head half-off her shoulders, a split second before Titus cuts him in half with hardly a grunt. Phox lives on for a good minute more, while his guts and blood flow out into a pool of congealing crimson, and even manages to drive his sword into Althea's leg with a wild swing before his cold eyes dull.

Although it's hard to pinpoint when the brief, violent struggle reaches its climax, it's clearly beginning to wind down within the first five minutes. Most of the tributes have fled, and their dim figures are still visible from the Cornucopia in several cases, scattering all around the stony bowl. Indigo finally unlocks his hands from Willow's neck as she goes limp, and gets to his feet, moving with Julian and Harriet to join the other Careers at the Cornucopia. Harriet is splattered with blood, having been involved with a long and bloody fight with Flow; Flow herself managed to almost gouge out one of Harriet's eyes and to break one of the older girl's fingers, but the amount of blood she's shedding as she staggers away suggests she won't be a threat for long. Eoin, scratched and bloody but largely unhurt, is jogging away towards the woods, his broad shoulders laden with goods. He hasn't killed anyone, but he leaves Terra staggering away with a broken jaw. Alice is waiting behind a spur of rock with the bow and arrows she managed to get, but she's clearly never practiced with them and her aim is poor; her first shot flies low and sticks in the ground between Terra's feet, and her second barely skims Terra's wide shoulder. With a muttered curse, Alice snatches up her bow and runs for it. Amaranth has already fled, having snatched at the first things to come to hand, and her slim figure is just visible darting across the bare rock to the south. All that is left at the Cornucopia is scattered weapons and goods, the dead and dying, and among the pools of blood and guts, the five remaining Careers. As quickly as it began, the bloodbath is over.

The Gamemakers give the scene a moment to sink in before they fire the cannons. The loud shots ring out five times, sending birds flying up all around the Arena as they're startled out of their peaceful lives. For a moment after the echoes of the cannon die away, the birds continue to scream and squabble, disturbed by the noise. Then, just as the birds begin to settle, a sixth cannon shot as Flow Morrison trips, her injuries too much for her, and falls twenty feet down a deep rift in the rocks, breaking her neck.

Silence falls. For a moment, there's breathing space, as the tributes stop and take account of themselves, wondering who the six were and who they still have to deal with. The moment of stillness won't last long, not with adrenaline running high and so many of the tributes in the relatively small space the woods provide, but it's long enough for the cameras to pinpoint each of the surviving tributes, showing them to the audience sitting safe at home.

(_In the spartan living room in their District Three flat, Rendwick's little sister finally stops screaming and buries her face against her mother's chest. Genna Herriot, who hasn't slept since her son was Reaped, holds her daughter tight and tugs her husband against her side. She tries to stay strong, because someone has to, but she can't stop her tears, or her rising anger. What did they do, she wonders, what did her little boy do to deserve this?_)

The five Careers, in various states of bloodsoaked disrepair, pick through the weapons and goods scattered around the Cornucopia, discussing and arguing over what's best to take. Titus and Harriet are clearly already starting to take charge, directing the other three to the best weapons and deciding aloud who should carry what. It's clear, if unspoken, that they don't intend to stay at the Cornucopia for very long.

(_In District One, Jasper and Lustre Vipointe stare at the screens in horror and disbelief. They don't scream or cling to each other, though, and their eyes are dry. They know they should be ashamed, not sad, that their daughter died so soon. They've failed her, their minds whisper. Her trainers failed her. Wonder was so promising, such a good District Candidate, and they'd been so proud of her. Now their only child is nothing to the Capitol but a fading memory of confidence and blood in red-gold hair._)

Weaponless in the woods, Deb Grey and Simon Naysmith have all but collided. They don't say a word to each other, but nor do they raise a hand against each other, apparently too tired and too afraid to try. Instead, as the cannons ring out, they huddle together in the hollow trunk of a large pine tree, hidden by the low branches.

(_There's a mangy grey cat who slinks around the Victor's Village in District Ten, yowling occasionally. Nobody wonders whose he is. The next day, Grange Wright, the Victor of the Games a decade ago, goes out with a saucer of milk, and other Victors follow his example . Arthur's cat never goes hungry again._)

Sart is hiding, too. Unlike most of the others who fled right at the start, he hasn't looked for shelter in the woods; instead, he ran straight through them, and now curls almost invisibly in a cleft in the rocks, hidden by shrubbery. The cameras barely stay with him; he's still, small, and all but impossible to spot from the cameras in the rocks around that area.

(_In Phox Allerdyce's apartment in District Five, they don't turn away from the screen. His younger brother Cede closes his eyes, emotions conflicting. There was no love lost between the two of them. There's no crying and wailing in the Allerdyce home, only a dead silence. At last, his mother stands up, silently, and disappears into the next room. His father follows soon after, leaving Cede to sit and watch the cameras move from tribute to tribute while, next door, his parents crack open the liquor cabinet._)

Valaria is still looking for somewhere to hide, empty-handed and clearly terrified. She moves like a ghost through the woods, casting frightened looks over her shoulder. As the sixth cannon sounds, wandering vaguely through the trees, she stops dead; Blye Combes, the sad-eyed tribute from Seven, stares back at her from halfway up a tree. For a moment, the two girls are frozen, looking at each other with slack jaws and wide eyes. Then, as Blye finally breaks her paralysis and raises the knife she grabbed in the bloodbath, Valaria breaks and runs, vanishing into the woods like a deer.

(_Willow's family watched her with their hearts in their mouths the whole time Indigo was wrestling with her, and even after she went limp, praying for a miracle. They should have known better. Miracles don't happen, not to shy little girls from the Seam. Now, slowly, it starts to sink in: she's not coming back. She's never coming back. There's a deathly stillness in the little room, as each of the Selkirks tries to wrap their heads around what they've lost._)

Alice, Amaranth, Nate, even Terra – all of them have gone quickly to ground, hiding up trees and behind them, or in Amaranth's case, in a shallow cave at the foot of the southern mountain. Eoin, for his part, isn't making even a token attempt to hide; he's found a clearing in the woods, and kneels there in his reflective jacket, his back against a tree, breathing slowly and steadily. Others are still moving: Mac Lemann walks eastwards with a newly-acquired limp, but without slowing his pace, a rucksack on his back and a stave in his hand, his eyes on the ground in front of him. To the north, both Milligans keep running. Somehow, without seeing the Arena in advance or having had time to discuss it since, they seem to have reached an agreement on where to go; although Dan has been invisible from the ground since he disappeared into the woods, Bethan is following him faithfully, heading north to where he's already climbing the bare rock of the mountain.

(_Flow's friends and family have gathered to watch the bloodbath, a motley crew of shaved-headed, violent-looking gangsters. They cheer and catcall as she staggers away from the Cornucopia, pretending she's victorious, nudging each other and joking with veiled fear that they knew she could do it. When the sixth cannon sounds, and the cameras show the awful angle of her head and the bone snapping jagged through her skin, it isn't shock but rage which overtakes the room. Two of them will be shot down by Peacekeepers the next day. Flow might have exaggerated a lot of things, but she was right about one: her friends did care._)

The hovercraft begins to move over the Arena as the cameras switch back to the Cornucopia. To anyone who's been around death, it's impossible not to imagine the smell; the flies are already starting to buzz over the darkening red stains on the rock, and guts and flesh lie strewn among the precious weapons and food. The Careers shoulder their burdens and leave the battleground without looking back as the metal claws lower down to pick up the broken bodies.

The Games have begun.


	7. The Chase

**7 - The Chase**

The Careers leave the Cornucopia united, but the cracks in their alliance are beginning to show even before they reach the edge of the woods.

"...And _I_ say we follow them!" Julian points his spear to the northern mountain, where Bethan Milligan's dark shape is still visible as she scales the rock. "The ones from Eight went up there, if we let them get away with that, they'll get themselves set in, and then we'll never dig them out!"

"What are you, stupid?" Harriet sneers, beckoning the other Careers after her as she continues into the trees. "All the other tributes are in the woods, where there's lots of places to hide, and there's food, probably water too. The brats from Eight are going to have to come down sooner or later. Now shut up, and come on."

"Listen, Keeler," Julian says hotly, "just because your daddy was a Victor..."

"Shut it!" Titus cuts across their bickering, slapping the flat of his sword against Julian's chest. "Whatever we do, you need to shut up, fishboy, or the whole Arena's going to know where we are and we won't find anyone at all. Harriet's right. Woods."

Harriet's white teeth flash in a smile, and she nods to Titus, who glowers back. Julian looks about ready to kill them both with his bare hands, but holds himself back with an obvious effort, his hands tightening on his spear until the knuckles go white. "Fine," he grumbles, his face twisted up with anger. "But you can't just act like this whole Arena belongs to you, Keeler, I..."

"The man said _shut it_, Julie," Harriet hisses back at him, eyes narrowing, and drops into a crouch. "I saw that giant girl from Ten go this way. Looked hurt. C'mon." With that authoritative command putting an end to the argument for the time being, she turns her back on Julian and the others, setting off at a run through the undergrowth. With various degrees of enthusiasm, the other four Careers follow. For all his sulkiness, Julian's face soon sets in determination, and before long, he's running only a step or two behind Titus and Harriet.

Althea is the first to catch sight of Nate's blonde hair through the trees, and she peels away from the rest of the group, speeding up and beckoning the other Careers after her as she darts through the trees. Her long legs are a blur, her chestnut ponytail bouncing against her back, and she's on top of Nate a split second after he turns to run. Pulling a knife out of her belt, she laughs merrily as she lunges in front of him. He turns, trying to dodge her, but she's faster, and the other Careers are pelting through the woods towards him, silence abandoned, whooping and roaring. The odds do not look like they're in Nate Dixon's favour. The backpack he grabbed at the Cornucopia takes the brunt of the first slash from Althea's knife, but the other Careers are closing in, Julian and Harriet jostling for position at the head, while Titus reverses his sword, ready to slash, and moves around to the left to pen Nate in fully. Now that he's trapped, the Careers lose some of their frantic rush, moving in slowly and with some relish. Nate, who failed to pick up a weapon in the bloodbath, scrabbles for something to defend himself with, snatching up a sizeable branch from the ground and gritting his teeth. He's obviously decided that, if he has to die, he's going to go down fighting.

There's a moment of quiet, as the Careers circle like wolves and Nate pants, sweat standing out on his forehead, Adam's apple jumping as he panics. Then, a flash of movement.

It doesn't come from the Careers. It doesn't come from Nate, either. It comes from Eoin, who thunders into view - running almost as fast as Althea, if far less nimbly – and, before the Careers can react, brings both bunched fists down against the base of Titus' skull. The big District Two tribute folds silently into unconsciousness, and the giant from District Twelve steps over him, beckoning Nate frantically.

"Run, Seven! Come on!"

Nate doesn't need telling twice. He bolts, head down and short legs pumping, his breath huffing out through gritted teeth. Eoin lopes along beside him, making rather better time; after a moment, as Althea gives chase with a whoop and a yell, the District Twelve boy grabs Nate by the wrist, dragging him along bodily. One of Althea's throwing knives lodges itself in Nate's thigh, but she had to slow to throw it, and the gap between the District boys and the Careers is widening. Eoin shoots a glance back over his shoulder as they dart through the thickening trees, and, seeing that Althea is momentarily out of sight, hurls Nate bodily into a thicket with an emphatic finger to his lips as he goes on running. A camera mounted on one of the nearby trees catches a close-up of his face; broad, freckled, and split by an unashamed grin.

"Hey!" he yells over his shoulder, and laughs scornfully. "Hey, Two! Can't catch me!" And then he's gone, laughing as if this was just a romp in the woods with a friend, while the baying mob of Careers give chase. He leaps like a deer over a fallen tree, skids under a low branch, and runs on, still laughing and jeering.

* * *

><p>In the tight space where they wormed together after the bloodbath, Deb and Simon listen to the howling and crashing of the chase, shrinking against each other and holding their breath as first Eoin, and then the four Careers, pelt past their hiding place. It isn't until the sounds have faded to dim echoes that the two younger tributes breathe again, drawing away from each other. For a moment, they regard each other in silence, suspicious and guarded, the shy, technologically adept girl from Three and the awkward young doctor from Nine. Neither are armed. Both are mud-streaked and gasping, and look terrified.<p>

Simon speaks first, his voice low and cracking from the strain. "Are... are you going to try and kill me now?"

Mutely, Deb shakes her head, her muddy brown eyes wide. Crushed in the confines of the hollow tree, with the camera forced so close against them, the audience get a very narrow view, but what they do see is in enormous detail; the tearfulness of Deb's eyes, the way Simon shakes slightly as he speaks.

"_They_ will," he says, quietly.

Still mute, Deb nods, but there's something a little sarcastic about her nod this time, as if to say _of course they will_.

"You got a high score. In training." Simon leans out of the tree a little, looking to and fro warily, and incidentally elbowing Deb in the ribs where they're wedged together. She winces visibly; his elbows are bony and sharp. "You've got to have something that can help us."

Now Deb seems to find her voice. "Us?" She frowns. "There's an us?"

Simon opens his mouth. Closes it. Opens it again. "Um. I mean. I kind of assumed." He's gone pink, which makes him look even more awkward and gangly, as does the fact that he's trying to disentangle himself from Deb without touching anything inappropriate. "Since, um, you know, we don't have much chance on our own, and..."

There's an audible pop as he manages to push himself out of the tree, landing in an undignified sprawl on the pine needles. "You know what? Never mind. I'll just, I..." Scrambling to his feet, he tugs off his reflective jacket and bundles it up so that the reflective stripes are on the inside, shoving it under his arm. "Thanks. For, um, for not killing me." Cocking his head, listening to Eoin's distant yelling, he smiles weakly at Deb and lollops off in the other direction.

Inside the hollow tree, Deb frowns after him, moving as if to call after him, then sighs and collapses back into the small, damp hollow of the tree. Adjusting herself into a more comfortable position, she reaches out to rearrange the low-hanging branches Simon disturbed, effectively hiding herself again.

* * *

><p>Hearing the whooping and yelling from the forest, Sart uncurls gingerly from his hiding place among the rocks, his big brown eyes peering out through the scrubby undergrowth as he tries to see what's going on. Although Eoin is leading the Careers a merry chase all around the Arena, still yelling and whooping to draw attention, none of it's visible from Sart's hiding place. He cocks his head, listening to the raised voices echoing off the rocks, and risks leaving his cover after half an hour or so. His crippled arm tugged against his chest, his bony body close to the ground, he scuttles along the bare rock, looking up every few seconds, like a rabbit that smells a hunter. He's quiet, but his breath rasps in the cold air, huffing out into clouds.<p>

The mountains claw up towards the sky in jagged symphony, and Sart casts a look to the sharp horizon of the Arena, his dark eyebrows pulling together. Mostly, though, he keeps his eyes on the ground at his feet, where the treacherously loose rocks clutch for an unwary foot. Once or twice he stumbles, catching himself with his good arm as scree skitters out from under his foot; each time he freezes, supporting himself on his hand and holding his breath for a moment, only moving on when he's sure there's nobody watching.

He makes slow time over the rough ground, scurrying across the open spaces like a mouse, his breathing increasingly laboured. At last he makes it to cover, diving the last few feet to the heap of boulders, and not a moment too soon – down by the woods, Eoin bursts out into the open, head down, heading straight up the hill, while the Careers string out behind him. Sart watches from between two slabs of granite as the distant figures wheel and stumble up the hill, all of them clearly tiring.

* * *

><p>Titus doesn't stir for a long time, although the cameras catch the thin steam of his breath, confirming that he's not dead but unconscious. The District Twelve giant struck him a good blow, and it's clear that he'll have a hell of a headache when he wakes up. <em>If<em> he wakes up, because just in view of the cameras, there's a stir of movement. Alice Calle, the girl from Nine, edges cautiously through the trees, her eyes on Titus' unmoving body. The bow she retrieved at the bloodbath is slung over her back, along with the quiver of arrows. She's made a largely unsuccessful attempt to cover the reflective strips of her jacket with mud, and smeared more mud on her brown cheeks, breaking up the lines to make herself less of a target.

She moves quietly, cautiously, towards where Titus lies with his limp hand still gripping his sword. Looking this way and that, clearly suspicious, she squats down next to him; her pose is taut and tense, ready to break into a run at any moment. Holding her breath, her movements slow and delicate, she reaches out.

When she touches the sword, she freezes, but Titus doesn't move. Encouraged, Alice shifts a little closer, eyes flicking to and fro one more time. Her fingers close around the pommel of the sword, and she tugs it out of his grip.

He wakes up. Half-conscious, he grips the sword tighter, fingers catching under the haft, and yanks back against her grip on the sword, his eyes flickering blearily open. Alice makes a strangled sound that isn't quite a scream, recoiling, but at the same time she wraps her free hand around the haft of the sword. There's a lot caught up in the noise she makes – angry and panicked and disgusted – as she leaps to her feet, kicking him in the face again and again, still hauling all her weight against the sword they both hold.

Titus' nose makes a horrible noise, gushing blood onto the packed earth as it breaks. He spits crimson from a split lip, and his grip loosens for a split second, long enough for Alice to haul the sword out of his grip and leap away, her thin chest heaving with effort and fear. Her hands shaking, she tries to heft the sword, but it's heavy and she's clearly unused to the weight, and despite his injuries, Titus is getting up, and although his charge is a little unsteady, he's twice her weight and rapidly regaining his senses. Alice hesitates a moment, and you can almost see the cogs ticking in her mind – this might be the last time she gets a chance to kill one of the biggest threats in the Arena, but he's bigger and stronger than her, and she's clearly having trouble hefting the sword, let alone using it.

As he charges like a bull, shaking the disorientation from his head, she takes the initiative. When Titus ducks under her first wild swing, though, and keeps coming, Alice's nerve breaks, and she bolts, dragging the heavy sword along with her. Titus follows, but only for a few steps, then slumps back against a tree with his hand against the rising lump on the back of his head.

Alice keeps running, not looking back. Unbeknownst to her, her path takes her in the Careers' footsteps, and she pelts over already-disturbed ground. From the bush where he was thrown, and where he now lies dizzy and bleeding from the leg, Nate watches her pass, then collapses back onto the ground, relaxing again, as soon as she's out of earshot. The whooping and yelling of the chase has faded to nothing; Nate is clearly struggling with his injury, nudging the knife in his leg and almost fainting from the pain. It's obvious he has to get it out, but the first time he tries, it's just as obvious that it's stuck deep, the vicious blade jammed up against his thighbone, through the thick muscle of his leg. The knife, and now his hands, are slick with blood; Althea's aim might not have been true, but she threw hard, and it's lodged solidly.

"Brought you someone," a voice says quietly behind him, and although Nate must recognise the District Twelve boy who saved him, there's still undisguised fear when he rolls over to face him. Eoin is red-faced and sweating, and there's a bloody gash across one of his broad biceps, but he looks less hurt than simply exhausted. Beside him, white-faced and terrified and with Eoin's hand around one bony wrist, is Simon Naysmith.

Nate blinks, but he must register that he doesn't have a chance if he fights, because the rock he'd lifted to defend himself with now drops out of his hand. "What's your game?" he rasps, licking his lips. "Why save me? Why not kill him?"

Eoin replies with a wordless grunt, kneeling down next to Nate and wrapping one massive hand around the knife's bloodsoaked grip. Simon, now released, hesitates for a moment between running and staying, then drops to his knee next to Eoin. "Not yet," he mumbles, with a frightened look at the older boy. "We've got to..." His bundled-up jacket is still under one arm. Carefully, with the air of someone who knows his every move is being scrutinised, he rests it against Nate's leg, just above the knife. "Okay." He takes a deep breath, looking at Eoin, who smiles a smile which would be reassuring in any other setting. "Okay. _Now_!"

Eoin yanks the knife out, grunting with effort, his hands slipping and sliding as he struggles not to widen the wound further. The second the tip leaves the wound, as Nate stifles his own scream with both hands, Simon clamps the wadded-up jacket over the hole, stemming the bleeding. On his nervous, but firm, direction, Eoin quickly yanks off his belt, fastening it tight around the top of Nate's thigh. They stay there a moment, in tableau; Simon with his white face set in fear and determination, Eoin holding the belt tight around Nate's leg, and Nate himself stretched out on the ground, hands over his mouth, while his eyes roll up into his skull and his consciousness fades.

At last, Simon hands the jacket to Eoin, indicating for him to keep it on the wound, and takes off his own belt to strap the makeshift dressing in place. Eoin waits, watching as he does so, but the moment the dressing is buckled into place, he straightens up. "We can't stay here," he observes, still breathing harshly. His hands are red with Nate's blood. "We've got to find water, something to wash out the cut, somewhere to hide, right?" Without waiting for an answer from Simon, he lifts Nate's unconscious form across his shoulders and sets out with determined tread.

"We?" Simon repeats, blinking, but he follows without argument. It isn't until a while later, when they've left the little wood for a cave in the foothills, that he speaks again. "Why... what he said. Why'd you save him? And me?"

Eoin looks up from the fire he's building in the back of the shallow cave, and glances at Nate, still unconscious in the corner. "Because I won't..." he starts, then closes his mouth, running his blood-crusted hands through his hair. "Because there's a lot of people gunning for me now," he amends, "and if there's one thing I've learnt from the Games I've seen, it's that the Careers don't do best just because they're trained. Simple maths. There's strength in numbers." He smiles a little, and in the evening light from outside, his grey eyes look almost damp. "It's our best chance, sticking together. So I'll look after you."


End file.
